The Musings of Terry Perry
by a-MAXiMINalist
Summary: A chronological archive of articles, short stories, childhood memoirs, letters, poems, misc. works composed by Terry Perry, few co-written by Terri, tracing his coming-of-age through his MU and later MI years. Experimental Fanfiction. Review/PM me for prompts, ideas, and even critiques to be incorporated in the story.
1. An Unpublished Opinion

_A Note by Ava-Kane,_

_This is a purely experimental fanfiction and would appreciate your contributions. So while there are certain chapters and segments planned out, **please PM suggestions, prompts, subjects, and ideas that Terry Perry could/would write about**. Also your CRITIQUES (constructive criticism) may actually be "incorporated" in the story somehow. _

_From any topical matter in the Monster World to his relationships with his friends and family. Prompts will involve short stories, poetry, articles, letters, etc. They have to be prompts I can legitimately work with and fit into the context of the story. You may have to skim over the format of later chapters to further understand what I am doing._

_It is notable that this is an experiment. Sometimes you might run into grammatical errors. So feel free to point them out, out but to bear in mind that I won't adjust everything for raw effect. _

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An article by a guest writer lay among the files of unpublished submissions to the "Campus Roar" Opinion page. Submitted three days after the _Campus Roar_ publication of the "Cute-Ma-Kappa" front page article, the article attracted many of the staff members' eyes, inspiring them to jeering snickers, uneasy chuckles, silent guilt, or just mere apathy. The editors didn't bother with revising it.

A majority of the staff deemed it unsuitable for publication for reasons best left to private conjecture.

* * *

**_Opinion Page Entry: "On Competition"_**

_I caution readers of the pessimism ahead. I would ask you to forgive it, but I cannot, especially, when M.U. has constantly justified this pessimism. _

_The monster culture is defined by Scaring. What drives it? Competition. __As a competitor of this year's Scare Games myself, I have experienced its pros and cons of competition._

_Competitive drives can be fun and handy. It __teaches discipline and competency in situations of great pressure. __Competition does encourage productive work. It is no coincidence that m__any veterans of the Scare Games, winners and losers alike, would attain successful careers in Scaring._

_But there is an overlooked guideline. The Scare Games are designed "as a friendly competition," as its founder, Dean Hardscrabble, puts it. And I doubt the definition of "friendly" would involve brutally hazing other competitors. T_he incident at the Roar Omega Roar (ROR) fraternity party is evidence of this. My___ team has unfortunately have subjected to an onslaught of ridicule from competitors, but the "Cute-Ma-Kappa" incident was the height of the insults. ___I have grown to expect ridicule, as Oozma Kappa is admittedly not known for its prestige and we are striving to earn respect from the school. After the incident, _I cannot be silent if it means watching my brothers suffer for other monsters' pettiness. _____

_Even if the school board cared to investigate the circumstances of the prank, I have the feeling that it would not change the insensitive stance of campus students, who kept purchasing those photos for their amusement and passing them around as a fad. __ROR masqueraded their bullying into a "benevolent" charity drive to pass the radar of school authorities, as if our shame was part of some higher cause and amusement of the monster culture. They escaped consequences simply because of the premeditated measures they took not to be penalized. They have done this before and will do this again._

_ I will try my hand at understanding it. I speculate that it has something to do with competition. __Could it be the fear of losing? Possibly, as every competitor, especially ROR, have positions to keep up. Their dignity is at stake. __The fear of losing is natural (but also irrational if you take it too far). _

_But what I fail to comprehend is that ROR has reason to believe that they cannot lose. They have no reason to flaunt their sense of predetermined victory. They hold the record of most Scare Game wins, known for their lineage to legendary Scarers, and a majority of ROR members are A-Honor roll students. But do not let these particular compliments indicate that they are strong in character. __These monsters belittle others because they believe it asserts their superiority. Winning or being close to winning was not enough for them so they make others, namely the "losers," suffer for their petty dissatisfaction. _

_I cannot decide which is more appalling. To see fellow competitors take it out on the "losers" and treat them like jokes rather than offer legit constructive criticism. Or the fact that spectators and bystanders laugh with the "joke" instead of intervening, which will perpetuate more of this heinous behavior in future Games. If M.U. celebrates this bullying, then what are we? Is this the consequences of competition?_

_Competition serves as a useful exercise in competency and skills. But it should not be treated as an assertion of egoism, especially when it is at the expense of others. __I do not ask for sympathy, but I would appreciate some sensitivity. If you are so invested in the faults and self-esteem of others, try helping them instead of bullying them? Who are you to decide who others' "faults" are? Who are you to decide how others should react to their own faults?__ Want to criticize other competitors? Be constructive, not destructive. And "constructive" certainly does not involve relentless teasing and belittling. It involves a sincere concern for the work and efforts of others to enhance and improve their work and efforts, not to degrade it._

_Privileges and victories are there to earn, not abuse._

_Guest writer and proud Oozma Kappa brother,_

_Terry Perry._

* * *

Unlike other rejected guest articles, it lay among the "Campus Roar" archives, neither to be published nor disposed of.


	2. First Poetry Scribbles

Journal Scrawling during Prof. Tom Tulley's lecture in Poetry/Prose class.

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_-Steal from your own life._

* * *

Rough drafts of poetry submitted for completion grades. Some considered unfinished and unsatisfactory by its sleep-deprived author.

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_**Being a Coat Rack**_

_sturdy in its inflexible, immobile spine of stiffness_

_suspended rack-arms _

_the spider of its legs _

_posed on hardwood_

_let them hang and shroud items on you_

_blinding you with a furry coat, a__ cashmere, a d__emi jacket_

_compacted sawdust of molecues so packed _

_that no one thinks of its agony,_

_its eternal __arthritis._

**:::::::::**

_**Humans**_

_Cursed by illogical anatomy_

_constricted limbs_

_How do they ever dance?_

_Their deadly toxicity_

_is nature's way of compensating_

_for the restraint of their biology_

_Two eyes, two legs, one mouth, one head_

_a lungful of scream._

_**:::::::::**_

_**A Conjoined-Twins Pigeon**_

_The elder and taller head, h__eavier than_

_the younger other, who was friskier than its brother_

_Other than body, blood, and heart,_

_they shared the wanting_

_to tear themselves into independent halves_

_and will themselves to defy their biological fate_

_and grow another wing each_

_to take flight on their separate ways._

_against wind and over oceans._

_They would keep in touch_

_by singing thousands of miles away from each other_

_as a reminder of each other's __existence._

_But nature cursed and bounded them,_

_and they would never have the strength_

_to tear themselves apart._


	3. Champ Victor: 1ST DRAFT

**Prof. Tulley's Prompt: **Write third-person POV prose about a despicable, vile character. Not a cartoonish supervillain, but someone who can exist in real-life Explore him or her. Base him/her on anybody you know and make an attempt to understand this character and his/her deeds. This can be an exercise in writing unreliable narrators. This draft will be conceptual. It will take a few drafts to perfect a challenging premise.

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**Champ Victor**

**By Terry Perry**

_The party would be a disaster without the losers,_ thought the bullish fraternity President as he admired himself in the silver of the trophy's reflection in the Hallway of Accomplishments.

Gazing before his impeccably polished trophy of last year's victory, he flashed his trademark devilish grin that could produce a child's scream worth five energy canisters. He was scarlet and broad-chested, accentuated by the dark-crimson sweater bearing the golden fraternity initials. He had two great horns protruding from the melon of his head. By goodness, he exercised his right to flaunt these qualities before the school.

His name was Champ Johnathan Victor the Third. His broadly brutish appearance was granted by biological birthright rather than effort. Other than his scarlet color, he perfectly resembled his father, who was immortalized by a grand painted illustration on the over-sized portrait on the wall next to the trophy, a grayish-dull purple, who bore his Scarer-frown the wall, a Scarer among the portraits of other Scarers, relatives and ancestors of his fraternity brothers.

"We totally got them!" came an excited cry from down the Hall. "As according to plan!" the voice squealed.

His girlfriend scurried down the hallway toward him and into his open arms. Jackie Nami, a slender blue humanoid monster with a cheerleader flare had searingly red eyes to get lost in. Although his parents were opposed to his relationship with one of the daintier-sized women ("Son, with her body type, how can she breed the best Fourth Victor?"), there was something in her feisty and girly temper that charmed him, the way a predator lured its prey to its venomous grip. She could sire the Fourth Victor indeed someday.

She had invited the loser fraternity to lure them into their trap. Logically, they traditionally pranked the rival group, the one most likely to snag 2nd Place. But the progress of the loser-frat won the intrigue of the school. It somehow drew their attention away from his frat accomplishments. Now this particular team had it in their heads that they will seize 1st Place and dethrone the five-times-in-a-row victories of Champ's frat.

That had to be fixed. And a loser-frat that survived a few rounds of the Game? A once in a lifetime opportunity for them, a once in a lifetime opportunity for delusions of grandeur, a once in a lifetime opportunity to sternly remind the underdogs of their place in the monster world.

He finally tore his prideful grin from his trophy to swing his trophy girlfriend into the air.

"The prank is on, pass it on," they whispered to Alec, his right-man hand and Vice President, a stout crab figure with pincers that shined like the medal and crawlers that thumped on the hardwood floor. So Alec gleefully passed it on to the rest of their brothers. To Juevo, the beetle, to Pat, to Jake, and the freshmen recruit, the violet chameleon, Rex, who had the ability to blend into his environment.

And they passed it on to the arriving party guests, who were gladly in on the joke.

The guests partied, laughed, and mused about their weekend plans as Champ and his brothers worked behind the scenes, arranging the props.

And as promised by Jackie, the loser fraternity, all six bodies of the members, did make their entrance and all eyes turned on them. The leader of the loser-frat was one small Cyclops, his shortness matched by a blob monster. One was an older member, the founder of the loser-frat. He must be a desperate, pathetic one perhaps undergoing a mid-life crisis. And there was a conjoined-twins with dopey expressions. Then there was a bizarrely arch shaped monster with an aloof grin. But most baffling to Champ was a larger furry fellow built for Scaring, who somehow made the misguided choice of joining the loser-frat.

How idiotic they were to accept the invitation (although he was both offended and understanding that they fell for Jackie's smile). Not even one of their teammates had any courtesy to prevent them from going. They couldn't resist the opportunity to taste popularity. They were the desperate bunch, seeking anyone, even the unskilled to add to their circle of mediocrity.

They looked as if they were about to bolt out, perhaps overwhelmed by the staring eyes. At first, Champ fancied the amusement of watching them flee. But no no, all their hard work will go to waste if they left.

So Champ extended his hand in a grand welcoming gesture. On cue, the room applauded their entrance. Alec heartily winked at him as he clapped his claws.

So the loser frat danced, partied, got dared to sip from red cups of booze, which they refused, because they were goody-two-shoes that way. For a while, it appeared that they were part of the community.

And finally, the revelry ended. It was time for Champ to formally present and congratulate those who made it far in the Games. Champ saved the best for last, praising the loser-frat, pretending in those few seconds that he respected them.

He raised his congratulatory hand to them. That was the signal. And from the ceiling, everything was dumped upon the six members. Pink goop of various colors, glitter, and even stuffed animals. So ridiculous that no school administration would take it seriously to reprimand or investigate. Champ's brothers came down from their positions to join in with the laughter.

The jeering echoed as they watched them frozen in their fear, trying not to slip on the goop. The sudden wailing of smallest one, obviously the baby of the group, provoked more violent laughter. That large furry guy had to catch the small blob guy to prevent him from slipping. The losers had that hilariously astonished shame plastered over their faces. It was like they were playing along with the joke too. Not even Alec's snapshot could immortalize the preciousness of this moment! It was glorious to see it for real.

Champ's pompous laughter reverberated throughout the walls of the house, bellowing along with Jackie's shrill giggles, triumphant in the brutality.

::::

The losers were naturally the first to leave, trudging out under the weight of the prank items.

His brothers were getting ready for bed. Alec was amusing about the priceless snapshots, preparing to pass them around campus for their amusement.

Champ took one ritualistic gaze at his trophy in the Hall of Achievements. It was still there, proud on its chestnut pedestal.

He rubbed his chin, satisfied. His reflection may have been curved on the roundness of the trophy. But he still got it. He could still see himself clearly. The disarming grin that scared up a storm. The grin that won Jackie over.

But what was that? A smudge on the polished silver. A flimsy fingerprint or two, right on the center, like a mild blemish on his cheek.

Damn it! What damn monster would touch his stuff? He knew he should have tacked on that DO NOT TOUCH sign. But honestly, with regal architecture that radiated a do-not-touch sophistication, you would think his admirers would have the courtesy to lay off their grubby paws, hand, tentacles. The only right wannabes had to his prizes was to look, not touch.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Critique: Terry, forgive me for being personal, but I have a hunch. I know what incident this is based on, having remembered a particular Campus Roar article. I offer condolences to you and the team. And that's good, you're stealing from your own life to make stories._

_But to offer an objective review, your protagonist needs more substance as he is a caricature. In the context of your story, Champ is one-dimensional. __He comes off as a classic 80s pop villain (with mild traces of depth in his relationship with his parents). __That's not to say these sorts of monsters don't exist, but they are more compelling when they are believable, whether its an accurate or even fictional representation. Don't get rid of the brutish traits, but throw in moments that make him more relatable. _

_Even bad guys are not without dimensions. Usually, these dimensions come in the form of pity, sympathy, and __maybe __even likability. Note that I'm not saying that they should be an excuse for their actions, but rather offer an understanding. Where can you start? Perhaps with the side-characters as I noticed you skimp over their qualities. Have their interaction serve a character. Give a sense of history between these characters. Let those traces of depth subtly take some precedence over the story._

_I also feel this story lacks heavy tension. It builds up to the inevitable prank and that's it. What does Champ have at stake? _

_If you ever return to this draft, I look forward to seeing what you have next._

_Wishing you luck on the upcoming Hide-and-Sneak,_

_Prof. Tulley._


	4. Terry, on Scaring Semantics

After an outdoor workout, they would rest in an empty classroom.

"Ok, we got about a week until the next competition and then that Final competition, so I now that we're rest up." Mike had a mischievous grin. "I've got a little surprise drill for you guys."

They leaned forward from their desks, ready to react to his barrage of homemade flashcards, expecting him to shout out hypothetical situations.

He whipped out some notebook paper. "A timed essay."

Sulley, Squishy, and Terri simultaneously threw out an immediate "Aw," as disgruntled students do when ambushed with a pop quiz. Don and Terry exchanged glances. Art went, "Aw yeah."

"Pardon me, Michael," Don remarked. "I appreciate the drill. Wouldn't it be more productive to rehearse our knowledge rather than... scribble it down?"

Mike seemed prepared for this sort of feedback. "The idea is that I read them aloud. And based on your knowledge and content, I toss out miscellaneous tips, based on what I assess from your display of knowledge." Mike especially gave Sulley a look. "Can't write a decent essay on Scaring, less chance of doing a perfect Scare."

Sulley resisted the urge to chomp on his pencil.

"The prompt is Scare Semantics."

Sulley shot his hand up. "Wait, what does-"

"Just write what you know!"

Terry was the most amply prepared, the lead of his pencil already on the first line of the notebook paper.

* * *

_Terry Perry_

**The Scarer's Semantics**

__Semantics in Scaring is like improvised choreography, according to the interchangeable environments of various children's bedroom as well as the children's preferences, meant to entertain (not in a comedic connotation) the insecurities of the child to maximize the acquisition of Scream energy. Any miscalculation in the choreography could downplay the effectiveness of the Scare by sending underwhelming messages to the child. ____The execution of the three main stages of contact - Entrance/Initiation, Confrontation, and Departure - are critical to the message the Scarer must convey to the child. __

__Entrance/Initiation involves atmosphere building, evoking suspicion in the child and stirring up fear. Shadows can be applied in building the atmosphere. Sometimes a small nightlight can be an advantage for the Scarer to play with shadows. Minor noises, like a scratch or a creep, can set the mood. A noise like___ hissing noise may offer the impression that the monster can strangle it in its coils. ___Optionally, a Scarer can wake the child early on and let the child absorb the atmosphere before the Scarer reveals himself. Sudden Scares are optional too, but developing the atmosphere increases the chance of potent Scare energy._ Atmosphere building stirs the fear in the child and warms up the Scaring effectiveness of the Scarer. ___

_In the Confrontation stage, the Scare has to be direct. __The roar, or fearsome pose, must have a paralyzing effect so the child does not think to dash out the door and alert the parents. _The roar must convey "fleeing is useless." They have to be too busy wasting their energy on their fears to act rationally. Making the child cry has to be avoided as_ technology has yet to progress to dampen out cryings or wailings. _An immediate cry suggests that the Scare wasn't direct enough._ ___No physical contact, that has to be avoided due to toxicity. But proximity matters in sending Scary vibes. The distance between Scarer and child must be risky but safe, preferably two inches ahead of the child's average arm's length from the child's. ____Eye contact is often a must to assert a threatening image.______

_Departure must be swift, so an exit plan must be thought out during Initiation, based on the arrangement of the hazardous playthings, as the Scarer previously assessed in Initiation. A__lthough door technology can temporary deaden the noise of the child scream to delay the arrival of the parents, the exit has to be theatrically and inconspicuously quick so the child can barely process that something was in its room all along.__  
_

_The tricky part is that the Scarer must overall have the child believe in the existence of the Scarer without knowing the Scarcer's clearly tangible existence_._ We have to appear tangible without giving away that we are tangible all along. To minimize the danger of discovery, the Scarer must act accordingly to the human's perception that the world and idea of monsters is a myth - a figment of imagination - to the children. It involves a deftness of misdirection and tricks to play of the young human's paranoia. _Semantics in the Scaring is distinctive from causal semantics between mons. Scaring semantics rarely involve verbal communication - though a concise verbal threat can be an optional Scare - and are more auditory and visual driven. _Verbal words take too much time, though a concise verbal threat can be applied to certain children depending on their fear preference. __The ideal Scarer makes a fleeting, but monstrous impression on the child. The Scarer must_____ maintain that myth that children have to fear the mons, not the other way-____

* * *

"Time's up! Terry, drop that pencil!"

* * *

After tossing aside Art's elaborate sketch of a child's room, Mike read Terry's paper aloud. He read everything but the final paragraph, for as pleasantly lengthy and detailed as it was, it seemed that last paragraph was trailing off to slightly irrelevant tangents. Although he needed to jump ahead to the physical practices, he did not forget to throw out a compliment.

"Well fellas, looks like someone has been closely studying those advanced books I recommended."

And he switched off the classroom light. Without being asked, everyone scrambled the positions of the desks to create a training ground. The blinds were yanked down to limit the sunlight.

"Terry. Oh, and Terri. You first." Mike's voice emulated the sternness of Prof. Knight, ready to toss out a hypothetical situation.

And Mike especially looked forward to what Terry and Terri could do with shadows.


	5. The Littlest Cyclops: 1ST DRAFT

Two assignments due next Monday for Beginners Creative Writing class.

**_\- A revised poem_**

**_\- New Prose Draft_**

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**The Shape of a Human**

Its flesh frames the bones and arrangement of its

Unoriginal biology

We've got species and variations

Extending from a complex network of the Mons' tree of evolution

The Cyclopian, Insectians, the Amphibians, the Reptilian,

Eterca, eterca

Mixes of all or one or two or three in many mons.

But in their world, they are solely homo sapients.

Do they know of their own deadly toxicity?

We're gifted with mobility and physical diversity

so why couldn't biology

immune us from their toxicity?

In the veil of shadow, the small human can see our shape.

And our eyes or eye would meet against

its demure eyes...

You can't even see the toxicity in their eyes

But you can see their frame of innocence

Ready to belt out the lungful of scream

* * *

"Pretend this is a bedpost." Mike's nails scratched the bark of the tree. "Build the Noise Atmosphere. Mislead the kid into thinking that the entity is in front of its bed..."

"Most of us don't even got claws. Not even fingernails." Squishy pointed out.

"Then make your own noise. Frank McCay has many variation of noise techn-."

"It's always this Frank," groaned Terri.

Mike was mildly offended. "C'mon, I saw the great Frank McCay do a Scare on an actual child."

"Not possible!" Art sang.

"I've got his hat as proof!" Mike would have pointed to his head for the umpteenth time. But at the time, he was wearing his emerald OK hat.

"You've told us that already."

Sulley rolled his eyes, annoyed, yet somehow affectionate. "Oh, you've haven't even heard all of it. Over and over he tells me that story."

Squishy was in awe, curious and inquisitive. He tugged right on Mike's arm. "Well, tell us Michael! You never told us all of it. C'mon. It might be a good Scaring lesson for us."

Mike gave a sly grin at this suggestion. The smile gradually formed into something so bright at once, that Terry, despite sharing Terri's mild annoyance over Mike's constant mention of this Frank, sensed that Mike's story would have an impact.

"When I was six..." Eventually, they found themselves settling down to listen, because it was only time Coach Mike put training to an immediate halt.

* * *

_Prompt: Have a friend tell you an interesting story of their past. You will write a first draft of a memoir of their experience. Evoke a sense of nostalgia of the environment and offer it a sensory feel. Something to bear in mind that when writing memoirs, the storyteller might filter out some uncomfortable aspects of memory._

_::::::::::::_

**The Littlest Cyclops**

**By Terry Perry**

The greatest day of my life started with a flashing nickle on the floor of the school bus. Having no pockets, I couldn't hold onto it for so long. Oh well. There was the field trip to look forward to. The children sang as they poured out the bus. The great foundation of the Monsters Inc company was before us.

I exited last, nearly left behind on the bus. With a thanks to the bus driver, I sprinted off the bus step.

My kindergarten teacher had us paired up. I grabbed my cousin, a blue fuzz, before his lazy hand could grab mine. The sweat of my cousin's hand on my palm.

The scale of Monsters Inc. was humongous. Smoke from the chimneys and the thunder of construction in the distance due to its constantly expanding Floors. If we weren't so excited, we would have been so intimidated by its size.

"C'mon, we're falling behind." My hand tugged on the arm of my oblivious blue fuzz of a cousin toward our classmates, gathered to the front.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;

The tour guide stopped us at the edge of the caution line of the Scare Floor and herded us to the side to make space for the Scarer's entrance.

All the Scarers, like heros, marched in with every gradual, dignified step. Straight ahead with resolve and dedication.

One of them stopped and grinned at us. A slim dark-blue octopus fellow, a recent University alumni, was a rookie ready for his daily Scare. His name was Frank McCay, and I did not know then that I would be hanging his posters in my bedroom.

The ceiling windows were shut, dimming the Scare floor. All Scare Assistants lined up at the desk stations. In slide the closet doors, wheeling from the ceilings and lowered to their station.

The view wasn't enough. Breaking from my cousin's flimsy grip, I pushed my way to the front for the better view and observe the Scare Floor. But the tour guide blocked me from crossing the caution, warning us that only Scarers could cross the line. They wanted to protect us from the toxicity of children. I didn't understand it. It wasn't as if we could get a tour in a child's bedroom.

However, distracted by the guide's quip, it gave those durn kids a chance to get pushy and bunch up to the front, shoving me right to the back like I never belonged on the Scare Floor. My protests were drowned out by their feeble imitation roar and musings.

The pace of the Scare Floor continued as the Scarers marched, creeped, slithered, dashed into their doors. From the distance, a scream. A holler. The clinks of canisters filling up. But my view was gone.

Then came the rolling clinks of Scream cans from behind. Some worker was carting some empty canisters onto the Floor. Sudden inspiration struck me.

Evading everyone's sight was easy. I hitched a ride on the canisters, clutching the side of a can at the side. It wobbled, but didn't topple over. I was too light to weigh it down.

I happened to drop myself off at the door of Frank McCay himself. No one shouted. No one saw. It was just the door, between me and the dimension of the human world.

Frank slipped in. It wasn't enough to watch Frank enter the room. I had to join him inside!

The distant shriek of my teacher didn't faze me. That chestnut door was closing in on my chance. Wide. Closing. Ajar. I edged myself in, just barely brushing the rim of the door and into the darkness of the child's room. bumping into spiky jumping jacks.

The child's room is incredible. A spacey room with the mines of toys, no doubt toxic, scattered around.

Frank navigated his tentacles through the barrage of toys. He slithered and morphed in the shadow. I saw those child scribbling of Frank on its wall. How many times has Frank been in that kid's room? He knew this kid and that kid clearly remembered him every time.

I jumped around, hopping over blocks and balls to get a good view of Frank.

And the child wasn't the only danger.

Without warning, a door opened, not the closet. Light from the hallway poured into the room. Frank scurried back, as if chased by the increasing light and hurled himself on a coat hanger.

In a swift _woosh,_ Frank was a miscellaneous coat hanging on the rack. Swaying so slightly with his mop of tentacles in the dark.

The parents nearly opened the door on me as they voiced their concerns about their child ("I've told you, he's fine," the mom insisted to the dad). No entity detected in the room. They shut the door and left.

Frank waited a second or two before the parents' departure and crawled to the bedpost where he methodically scratched on the front of the child's bedpost before slipping off to the side of his bed as the child lifted its head, now awake and suspecting.

The Scarer lifted his great claw and spread his tentacles-arms wide, as if preparing to snatch the child, then summoned out his claws. Of course, he couldn't touch the poisonous child, but the child did not know that.

So the child let out a gentle whimper, until it found its breath to scream.

::::::::::::::::::::::::

Frank didn't saw me until he was back on the Scare Floor. I trailed right behind and eluded him. If only I could see the confusion on Frank's face when he saw the crowd greeting him! The entire Scare Floor had been put to a halt. Employees, teachers, Scarers were gathered up at the door.

Everyone bunched up toward me, clutching first-aid kits, medics on standby. They approached me with frantic questions. _Did you touch anything? Young man, did you have a death wish?_

How could a child escaped unscathed like a Scarer?

Frank, naturally, joined the scolding. "That was real dangerous, kid," Frank told me. "I didn't know you were in there!" he was all concerned.

It hurt. He meant well, but his disappointment was like a wound.

But then, that little smile came upon his face.

"Wow."

Then he said it again, this time, as a compliment.

"I didn't know you were in there... not bad, kid." With a wink, he laid his navy blue cap upon my head. He dissolved back into the crowd to permit my teacher to confront me.

I could feel the wide grin on my face. Before, I liked Scaring. Liked what I've heard about it. The grueling jobs, their fearsome skills, their awesome poses in their trading cards. But now I have seen it all and loved it. I wanted it.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" scolded my teacher.

"How do I become a Scarer?" What else could I say? The moment between me and Frank McCay will sure resonate through my childhood, leading to childhood years of Scary chalk drawings on the pavement, eagerness to collect all cards, and tack posters on the wall as I wore my lucky hat.

The rhythm of the Scare Floor resumed as my teacher escorted me back to the hall. Although there was no alarm, the Accident-Free Day meter was set to 0. I was an incident, here, on a Scare Floor. I survived the child's room. I was the tiny entity who watched the famous entity of Frank McCay.

The fact that I didn't emerged with a trace of fear, my classmates called it "cool" (and it would be the sole act of appreciation to me). Most adults, particularly mom and dad, called it "trauma," that I was too shocked to process what happened to really display never fear. Frank, although he never voiced it aloud, had considered it an achievement, one by a precocious child, driven by ambitious curiosity.

Does Frank McCay still remember that six-year kindergartner who followed him behind? Would he be flattered and proud at the knowledge that my bedroom walls had his posters, that I treasured his cap, and I still think of his wink? That six-year old aspiring Scarer, who will follow in the footsteps of Frank?

* * *

"Not a shabby first try, Terry."

Terry was relieved to finally get a word from Mike, signifying that he had finished reading after some prolonged suspenseful silent reading.

From up his bunk, Sulley snickered, before adding. "Look out Terry, Mike might hire you write his biography."

"Well? What do you think Mike? I mean, I might have fictionalized the bit about th-."

Mike leaned back with his affectionate smug grin. "Now, based on historical accuracy, I'll grade it... an A-. But don't worry about that. It's a sure A to your teacher."

Terri, having not been permitted a glance of Terry's paper, was getting livid, for it seemed that Terry always barred him from the significance and profundity of his works. "Terry almost never lets me read what he writes."

"Well, it ain't finished. It's a rough draft."

Mike grinned. "Well, in your next rough draft," he remarked with a gradual blink that was a Cyclops language of "winking." "Keep in the part when I'm a Scarer."

* * *

_Critique:_

_Whoever you have heard this from, your friend must have recounted and boasted this story in fine detail, and you've done a decent job at establishing a Scarer's environment. It's interesting that you chose to feature real-life Scarer (unless that part was true)._

_I do feel that the descriptions are a little too concise. __To spruce up the environmental setting, I recommend that you slightly push the element of romanticism further. Find a wider scope of the environment. Enhance the sensory details and moments._

_Being that the story is indicated to be a memory of a now-older character looking back on childhood, you have an opportunity f__or a little romanticism and more introspective moments. Clearly it makes a difference if the story was set entirely in the six-year-old's head rather than an older character reflecting on his childhood. I have the feeling the story is narrated by a fellow who enjoys romanticizing some of the mundane actions._

_The strength of the story is grounded in the internal thoughts of the main character rather than the actions and events. The action, such as the exploration of the child's bedroom, could need more exploring. And this would surely benefit your Scaring knowledge, do apply a sense of Scaring psychology (such as the moment when the Scarer scratches the bedpost). Of course, avoid placing it in as info dump, but incorporate it into the action to illustrate the reader the intricacies of the Scaring motion, which your protagonist is deeply immersed in._

_While I might be wrong, somehow the story reads as if you wanted to be accurate to the events of the account with very little fictionalization. You might want to involve fictionalizing the environment and the circumstances a bit. __It's your friend's story, but remember, this writing is yours._

_Good wishes,_

_Prof. Tulley._


	6. Two Letters to Two CDA Cells

_Note from Ava-Kane_

_Some of the events of this chapter is written to coincide w/ events of an upcoming MU fanfiction. I am in the process of revising "More Than OK" to prepare for that upcoming fanfic._

_7/23/14- Whoops! Thanks to UntoldStories113 correcting me that it's actually "Yearbook" not "Fearbook." Fixed._

* * *

The first rough draft of Terry's letters.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Dear James,_

_I hope this letter reaches you. We would visit or call you, but the CDA wouldn't allow it. All Don could get out of them were your cell numbers. __Ms. Squibbles tried to send a care package but it got rejected. So here I am, writing this letter in hopes that the CDA won't withheld this._

_Terri and I are back to dancing. Got exams ahead of us. A writing Portfolio due in a few weeks. A dancing exam. Trying to find the energy to rehearse. _

_We're in a load of mess right now. __Even though our names were cleared, we still get disappointed looks on campus. I suspect they're disappointed about the false victory. __Art just been twirling around his chair trying to read his textbook. Don's been gone at the library, studying the computers and his textbooks. __Squishy suffers the worst. He's been idling around, trying to read a book, but he chews his fingers. And now he's an empty shell who sits in his usual slump on the sofa, not even touching any sweets. He's still coming to terms with the ordeal and is very uncertain about his plans. Everyone is trying to pull through._

_I hope this letter reaches you and the CDA will not send this back. We've still waiting for you to come home. We're barred from all the hearings and proceedings, but we still think of you._

_Sul, I don't know what to think. I don't know what you were thinking when you sabotaged the simulator. I'll just say that was darn selfish thin-_

_::::::::::::_

The letter was discontinued and shoved into a wastebasket, not disposed by the author's own hand.

* * *

_Dear Mike,_

__We are, in Ms. Squibbles's words, worried-sick.__

_We would visit or call you but the CDA barred us from that. __Ms. Squibbles sent a package of Bluescary pie, but they just got sent back, rejected. So hopefully, they would permit letters and this will reach your eye._

_I don't know why you ventured into the Human World like that. The whole school calls it awesome. I call it dangerous. _

_Regarding the sabotage incident, w__hat happened was beyond your control and the fault of a misguided teammate. __I hope you are no longer sad. I am so glad that you guys came out alive. We were so - yes, I know you will berate us for feeling this- **scared**. You don't know how happy we are that you survived the ordeal._

_Everyone is pulling through. We got some time to study for the upcoming Finals. Art is reading up on his New Age psychiatry (yes, that exists). Don's studying the computers. Scott's just been relaxing, taking it easy._

_We're waiting for good news, namely, your release. Come home in time for the Yearbook signing._

_Your friend-_

_::::::::::::_

The nearly-finished letter was shoved aside by the author's hand.

* * *

The actual letters that got sent to the CDA Headquarters.

One to a James P. Sullivan in Cell A-113. One to a Michael Wazowski in Cell B-095.

::::::::::::::::::::

_Dear Sulley,_

_Ms. Squibbles is worried-sick. She sent a care package of sweets but that got sent back, so I hope this letter does not get sent back by the CDA. Don could only get your cell address out of the CDA. No visitations were permitted. So if this letter reaches you, please read._

_I've struggled to find the right words to put down on this sheet of paper. It's my hand that writes, but Terri is the second brain, proofreading, not for grammar, but rather, for the right words. He even disposed of a few rough drafts of letters because he feared that I'm not telling you the right words. Usually I don't like it when he watches me write and have him turn his head away (yes he is reading this as I write), but I should involved him because we share the same concern for you._

__I do have to reveal some dire news. Hardscrabble wants us in her office in perhaps about two weeks from now, on the first Finales week. She would talk to us earlier but apparently she's busy with yours and Michael's proceedings. Arguing for or against you? I wish I knew. Don't worry about us getting incriminated by your actions, we were informed that you confessed. __

_Don has called on a meeting after the arrival of Hardscrabble's letter. He made us see that we still have plenty to look forward to, mainly, your release. But ___we can't pretend that everything will go well for us. _Whatever happens, we're discovering ways to cope.___

_I'll cannot conceal the fact that it has taken quite some time for me to process your actions.___ I know you feel awful about it Sulley. I knew that because you were the one willing to break the police line to go after Mike. You dived into the human world after Mike. We still trusted you to go after Mike in spite of the huge error. We didn't even have the nerve to dash in the Human World with you. ____I know you sit there, worried about us as much as we worry for you. __

_Forgive me for speculating, but it was a moment of weakness when you tampered with the Scare simulator. A misguided action. I sense that you've done that for Mike and us. Well-intention as it was, we __can't accept that. We need an honest victory. ___I know that you've done it out of the best intentions, but we cannot excuse it. But we do understand why. ___It was a moment of weakness you had. It resulted in horrid consequences, so the best we can do is move on and learn from them._

_I doubt that we will have our Scaring Dream back but that's ok. Our plans have changed once again, but with Don's help, we see a future for our other plans. _

_Know that you and Mike will come home to our support._

_Your friend(s) and brother(s),_

_Terry _(I'm including Terri, since he's has been such a proofreader).__

* * *

_Dear Mike,_

__I, Terry, am writing this and Terri is helping me find the right words to put down.__

_We hope this letter reaches you and the CDA will not send this letter back. We've still waiting. Know this first, we want to be there for you and hope you are being treated well there._

_We received a letter from Hardscrabble quite recently. She's seems to be busy with your matter. Whether she's pleading your case or against you, I cannot say. __I'm not going to lie, but Hardscrabble has to be more straightforward with us. It's like she's making this some sort of test, as if her vagueness is some sort of secret exam to see how we can react to it. All we can do is wait._

_Don assured us it can be for the best. Whatever happens, we'll be ok. Terri and I have been rehearsing these killer dance moves. That beneath-the-bed roll? That's a killer dance move right there. Even I never enjoyed dancing so much. Now I'm looking forward to jazz class with Terri. And my schedule has space for Creative Writing classes next semester. __Art is starting on his therapy studies. He's quite excited and wants to offer us free services in the future. __Squishy's is still very uncertain about his plans. But this kid can make forts out of cushion. Guy's got potential for anything._

_Mike, I'm struggling to find the right words to discuss the stunt you pulled last week. __Everyone is speculating about the incident in the Human World. _

_Terri at least thought it was, in his terms, awesome, and yes, I have to commend whatever Scare you and Sul pulled off! The school is raving about it, though I suspect the newspapers are trying to cover that up since it only mentioned the break in, not that Big Scare (capitalized for effect!). But the school__ knows that a Great Scare happened. _They're glad because they see that as an accomplishment to celebrate. ____Sure, it's lovely that it lead to fame, a consolation for your loss, but I can't help ____but I see that more as a survival. ___Your survival exceeds a victory of the Scare Games. Your survival is worth more to us than our Scaring dream._

_We don't know why you wanted to throw yourself out in front of tens of children, but I, forgive my speculation, believe it's was the loss - or rather, the brutally false victory - at the Games. I know, we were disappointed too. __  
_

_You've hit a low point when you walked into the Human World, that's what I know. Only you and Sulley knows what exactly happened there, but I suspect somehow that you had to force yourself back to your high point. Because you emerged from that door as it shattered under the power of ADULTS screaming._

_Do you ever notice that in your lowest point, at your worst funk, some resourceful instinct kicks in? _

_You're always resourceful and you'll find something along your way during your worst time. I'm not one to say what it is exactly, but I know you WILL rise out of this low point because you helped us do that. Want a specific example? It was you who took us to see the Big Leagues at M.I. to see us after ROR drove us to our low point._

_Despite your successful first Scare and all the raving among students, I cannot pretend that the University will favor your circumstances as many school rules got broken in the process. And that hurts, as you have been working so hard to match up to the school's standards for that Scare Program. But I know you'll come out ok. Knowing you, you're not one to settle for "ok" and that's your charm. Your standards are high, but b__eing ok is fine. __You gotta learn to be satisfied with that without forgetting that being "ok" is a temporary state. And even if you feel you're stuck with being "ok," find ways to redefine it into greatness. And then you can decide what standards you want to shoot for. Maybe it's not about how high the standard, but what _kind_ of standard you want. Namely, maybe there's some wonderful opportunity outside of the school standards. _

_And if this advice comes off as desperate and pretentious, then I apologize. I'm not one to know your feelings entirely, but I'll say whatever I can to lift your spirits._

__That Bluescary pie smells so good, but we won't have a bite because we're saving it for you. _Expect our warm support when you guys come home. Don ordered you and Sul two Yearbooks and we plan to get signatures in it. _

_And you're be very proud of our new killer dance moves. Oh, it's original choreography heavily influenced by your teachings!_

_I guarantee you will find us always supportive._

_Your friends and brothers,_

_Terry &amp; Terri._


	7. Victor Champ

_**Ava-Kane's Revision Timelog for Chapter 7**_

**8/4/13- **original posting of chapter. Message left regarding the pending critique of Tulley.

**8/25/13- **critique completed with the submission of a reviewer. See below.

**8/27/13- **FOOTNOTES INSERTED. The symbol **[#]** does not exist within the context of the story but will mark areas where I integrated your reviews and clarified the implied responses. The footnotes will mainly cover aspects that were influenced by the reviews rather than what was planned earlier.

* * *

**End of semester final portfolio requirements**

_Revise/Polish your drafts the best you can. Disregard old guidelines and revise them however you want them to be._

_Contents for Portfolio_

**_1) Revised prompt 1_**

_2) Revised prompt 2_

_3) A revised poem_

_4) End-of-semester reflection paper._

* * *

Terry, Terri, and Squishy watched glumly from the doorway.

As if on beat, Sulley flung his blanket into his trunk. "What's dad going to say to me?" Mike, clutching a rolled-up Frank McCay poster, patted Sulley on the back.

Sulley didn't seemed so astonished to find Squishy suddenly behind him, joining Mike in the back-pat, though Mike flinched at Squishy's sudden appearance and chuckled.

When the room was nearly cleared, Terry noticed a box in the corner "Think you've missed a box, let me get that for you."

"Oh," Sulley muttered. "I'll toss that in the recycle bin."

But then Terry noticed that it was labeled ROR Books in faded market, so he jumped in, "Wait, can I keep them?"

"Why would you want-"

"Research purposes."

Sulley gave an mildly amused shrug, as if his funk gave him no energy to question this. "Heh, Javier had some decency to send me the ROR books when they kicked me out."

"Don't they..."

"Oh don't worry, they don't mean anything to me... anymore." But then some introspection crossed his face. "Those were kinda the last things I had of them." An uneasy chuckle. "Even if I never read them."

Suddenly, Sulley seemed to be reminded of something and he knelt down at Squishy's level. "Hey Squish. Listen, I know once, I promised that you could have my trading card when we're Scarers. So I thought you should have my lucky trading card."

He placed a card in Squishy's hand.

Despite their awareness of Sulley's lineage, barely was that Bill Sullivan spoken of by Sulley himself. Other kids on campus seemed to speak of Bill Sullivan more than Sulley.

It was the first time Terry, Terri, and Squishy ever had a glimpse of Bill Sullivan, a fearsome creature that stared so disapprovingly through the trading card that there was no doubt that he did not need his own legendary roars to elicit a child's scream.

And he had a very fatherly glare too.

* * *

_"For Roar Omega Roar, our future generations must learn to look up their sacred history more than their future. Their appreciation of our history should be the drive to their future successes."_

_\- The quote of John Worthington II, as inscribed on the first page of the 13th Edition: History of ROR._

* * *

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Son of Victor Champ II**

**By Terry Perry**

Was it a crime to see his most recent Games trophy as an empty cup?

It wasn't that he had reveled in last year's victory, but every accomplishment became outdated with every new one. He had to remind himself, they gratified and enhanced his position and character.

Gazing before his impeccably polished gold cup on its chestnut pedestal, he flashed a reassuring trademark slasher grin that could produce a child's scream worth five energy canisters. Scarlet and broad-chested, accentuated by the dark-crimson sweater bearing the golden fraternity initials, he had two great horns protruding from the melon of his head.

His father and mother had named him Victor Jonathan Champ the Third, now the President of Alpha Omega, the best fraternity on campus. Other than his scarlet color, he resembled his father, who was immortalized by a grand painted illustration on the over-sized portrait on the wall next to the trophy, a grayish-dull purple fellow, who bore his Scarer-frown the wall among portraits of other alumni of Alpha Omega, often relatives and ancestors of his frat brothers.

On the other side of the portraits, were glass casings, containing individual artifacts of accomplishments and trophies and documented accolades of its past and current frat members. With every recent wins and accomplishments of newer and entering members, the oldest accolades would either be claimed by their original owners or stuffed into the old storage closet to accumulate dust.

Someday, this trophy will be as worthy as his faded silk Valedictorian robe, meant to be a single past win in a long line of upcoming accomplishments, a relic to make way for their forthcoming victory in the Games.

He had survived, no, _owned, _that first round, leaving him with the rest of the rounds to worry about. He didn't want last year's trophy to overstay its welcome on its pedestal.

In the meantime, there was the party tonight. He had to live his college days before he's off to prove himself in the workforce.

It was a Alpha Omega tradition to throw a lavish party after the second round of the Games where the first elimination took place and there was a sizable number of rival contestants to attend their frat party. But this time, he felt that their extravagant party had been underpriced, considering the massive funds his father, an alumni of the frat himself, and former residences - relatives of fellow frat members - had sponsored. So he decided to stir things up. He had to maximize the fun of the party for his pals and the guests.

So he can invite the losing fraternity team - Slugma Beta - that fell flat into last place and elimination in the first challenge (couldn't survive those urchins toxins long enough to get fingertips across the finish line).

From the peripheral of his vision, he saw a lavender slender humanoid figure with fiery hair dashing toward him.

"HEY VICKIE!"

His girlfriend, dear Jacqueline Nami, who was in charge of inviting the dead-last fraternity. Her smile must have won them over.

She sprinted right into his open arms. "Vickie, we've got them. We totally got them! Pass it on, Vickie."

"That's my Jackie."

"Oh Vickie!"

The nickname "Vickie" would sound degrading, but it was better than people pegging him by that surname like a distant professor would in class, as if the honored surname mattered more. The Champ name was a huge honor, yet it was like a curse too. How did such a surname ended up along his lineage? Champ? Generic and uninspired. It was basically a obligatory supplement to his linage.

At first, it had been pestering that his brothers called him Vickie, taking inspiration from Jackie's saccharine, playfully emasculating nickname. But soon, Victor mentally trained himself to tolerate, even embrace, that. Well, if you can't laugh with the joke, accept the joke.

"So _Vickie_," It was Alec Chaz, pal first, frat Vice President second. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything." His pal, Alec snapped a claw to catch Victor's attention. He was stout crab figure, the height of Victor's waist. He bore an uppity, paunchy inflection to compensate for a mild lisp, something Victor knew Chaz senior - the figure in the fourth massive portrait three pictures down the hallway - despised ("Speak clearly, boy!" Mr. Chaz would scold over the dinner table as Alec would try to maintain a straight, dignified face over his humiliation).

Without letting go of Jackie, Victor ordered, "Alec, that frat is coming, get the stuff ready."

"By golly!" He rubbed his pinchers together.

Earlier, Alec had protested that they didn't want to send out the message that underachievers should be rewarded ("Um, dad says we shouldn't encourage the hopeless."), so Victor had counterpointed it by remarking that his fraternity should set an example of altruism. Although Alec probably did not know the definition of "altruism," he might have suspected it was synonymous with "prestige," a standard that Chaz Sr. pushed his son to attain. Besides, Victor had said, we're can celebrate them on our own terms...

The idea of inviting Slugma Beta had been growing on Alec.

"I'll pass it on to the bros. Get the stuff ready, Alec."

Victor passed the news to Pat, rather generic in his Dino appearance, but accomplished in technique, who was jabbing the potato salad in the kitchen while chomping down mouthful of tater-chips. He flashed double thumb-ups at Victor.

Then Victor ran to the rec room to pass it on to Jacob, bulky bugged-eyed frisky figure, whose great fingers flicked at the pool balls like they were marbles, with a slug heritage of protruding eyes and the build of a rounded brute. In revelry, he threw an eight ball at Victor, who smoothly caught it and tossed it back at him, their affectionate ritual game of catch.

Then to the study room, where Juevo, a four-armed beetle creature, read through the great books, a taciturn fellow who communicated with his friends by the subtle movements of his lips, the deliberate shifts of his brows, and the speed of his winks and blinks. He sat in a stiff posture on his velvet armchair, deep into a copy of their frat history book. Everyone envied his ability to consume the materials in the textbooks.

Victor flashed a wink. "Get ready, Juevo."

Juevo nodded with an aptly-timed prolonged blink.

Right on the armchair, in front of Juevo, appeared the slender chameleon Rex, who had apparently made the unnecessary move of camouflaging in the red velvet.

Rex should get the gist.

"Oh, eh, you too Rex." He wished to sound more enthusiastic to Rex, but the verbal acknowledgment still reeked of an aloof afterthought.

Rex Cunningham - a rapid replacement for an incompetent ex-member who had the build but lacked the skill- wringed his hands in trepidation, probably holding back the temptation to disappear in sight, and sink into the armchair by elaborate camouflaging. He had difficulty controlling it, having a knack of blending at not quite necessary times. But at the very least, he was skilled at fitting into his environment. The recent freshman recruit had been casted into their frat as a gamechanger player with the ability of elaborate camouflage, so subtle that, as long as he didn't screw up his moves, it should be easy for him to execute an effective scare. Victor always insisted to his brothers to remind Rex to grin or frown like a scarer to compensate for his scrawnier, not-so-intimidating size.

He could detect the apprehension in Rex's eyes, even from a distance.

Nervous spells were common but a warning sign of a screw up. Nervousness was best contained and concealed from spectator's eyes. Victor wondered if Rex's disappearing abilities stems from his need to seclude his insecurities.

Didn't the freshman know what he signed up for? Didn't the freshman know that his team were at stake? A history of winning streaks wasn't enough to compensate one teammember's incompetency and unprofessionalism.

Rex had yet to be a friend, but he was a new brother, who needed to gut up to their virtues and courage. But Victor knew that the best way was to push the kid immediately into the risks and obstacles, the way his grandfather once shoved him before a difficulty-leveled test dummy when he was eight. The greater the pressure, the bigger chance of unlocking potential. That was his charity to the freshman.

But never mind his worries about the new recruit's upcoming Scare performance, he had to live for the moment.

* * *

Slugma Beta arrived dead-last, as Victor expected. Nothing but their benign faces signified their arrival as they lacked theatrically like the other fraternities and sororities. Sure the lead frat member, a small, benign cyclops did excitedly threw open the doors, but his arms lacked the strength to make them slam.

Diversity was not uncommon among fraternities - Victor's brothers hailed from various families with vibrant personalities and biological backgrounds, but their diversity was almost notorious. The leader was that small bright green cyclops, his shortness matched by a child-like blob monster. One was an older member, the founder of that frat, perhaps undergoing some bizarre mid-life crisis. And there was a conjoined-twins with dopey expressions. Then there was a bizarrely arch shaped monster with an aloof grin. But most baffling to Victor was a bear-sized furry fellow, _designed and bred_ for Scaring, who somehow made the misguided choice of joining the frat.

With the exception of the cyclops, Slugma Beta tensed up, ready to bolt out, perhaps overwhelmed by the stares.

So Victor extended his gesture into a warm welcoming one. He felt an enlightening twinge of benevolence, like the how he assisted his mother in her charity work at shelters and soup kitchens.

They entered like excited debutantes.

Now at this time, Victor could relax at the dance floor, as his brothers worked behind the scenes.

Everything went smoothly. On occasion, Juevo and Jacobs will slip by the dance floor, signaling thumb-ups to Victor before disappearing. Slugma Beta assimilated themselves with the community on the dance floor. The slinky aloof one break-danced. The twins and little blob jammed with the beat. The old fellow danced up some outdated moves that involved pointing with both hands at the other dancers, as if he expected them to reciprocate the gestures.

Jackie was the real life of the party.

Victor never fully comprehended dad's uneasy mannerisms around Jackie. He could tell by the falseness in his grins when he had shaken Jackie's hand on a visit. She had been cordial and sweet-mannered around mom and dad, and dad had always made sure to compliment those qualities of Jackie. His mother adored sweet Jackie and bantered with her about their significant others ("Well, you're married to same Victor for over two decades, you're bound to put up with his boisterous ways," to which Jackie had replied, "Well, brute or softie, he's my man."). At least Jackie was a top-notch Scare student too and that alleviated his reservations about her.

It was only when dad once joked about the need for a Fourth Victor Champ, a brute-sized did Victor understood, but could not condone, his father's reservations about Jackie. It occurred to Victor that it must be Jackie's dainty, slender appearance. How could dad disapprove? Didn't dad always bore him with the story of his elopement with mom because granddad didn't approve of her background and how mom had to fight to win granddad's affection?

And this limber, lively girl on the dance floor wasn't enough for dad.

The closest to an incident came when one of the twins head (who cared which was which?) shot a flirty look at Jackie. But loyal Jackie shook her head at him. A good-natured rejection.

Wanting to forget the sight of that flirtation, Victor half-sprinted into the dance floor in a dignified, rhythmic motion, gripped Jackie's arm, swiftly escorted Jackie out onto the center dance floor.

He looked back at the twin head, expecting an air of disappointment. That twin head simply shrugged and resumed his dance.

"I've already got a man," Jackie replied in his ear.

At this compliment, Victor flicked out, from the cuffs of his sleeve, a bouquet of crimson and golden daffodils with the pleasant scent of fuzz and pollen. It was conveniently recycled from the flowers props that the guys purchased last night (speaking of which, Pat and Jacobs were setting them up now).

"Oh, Vickie."

That earned him a kiss. The sensation of her delicate lips on the fraction of his wider jaw, it excited him and he imagined his life in a whole instant: They'll both be Scarers, he and Jackie, a renowned Scaring couple. He'll end up as a co-worker on the same Scaring Floor with dad so they can wave at each other every day. Father will be pleased at his occupation. But of his marriage? How could his father disapprove of such a pretty sight like her just because she didn't have the ideal Scarer body? He was pestered that he should be a breeder to the lineage but accepted this task with both pride. Yes, he dreamt of his own perfect family, a secret he planned to divulge to Jackie when he had the guts someday.

The old man of Slugma Beta, mid-life crisis guy, had just pointed at him. Weird amateur outdated dance move. The man grinned and nodded at him and he swore he could hear a soft thanks.

Their mutual nod made Victor hate that this old guy got caught in this sort of party. As his mother always told him, respect your elders, particularly when the great retired Scarers came for weekly brunch in his mansion.

But he couldn't discriminate tonight. Old, young, smart, they were all welcomed under the roof of his fraternity house. Welcomed to revel with them at their own risks.

The noise of the blaring music wore him down, so he excused himself for a stroll around the hall, assuring Jackie that he was ok.

* * *

Victor didn't expect to see someone in the Hallway of Achievement. Guests rarely took interest in the Hallway.

That guy was staring into his trophy, too transfixed to see Victor. That cyclops. Not even taller than the pedestal.

The little horned cyclops, wearing an expression so determined and chipper that it was annoyingly optimistic. He pitied that fellow. Hell, he pitied whoever was the fellow's father. Jeez, it would be hard for a dad to love a little adorable sight like that. Well, a mom would be more merciful perhaps.

Then the cyclops had the audacity to reach out and touch the trophy, as if he was inspecting its authenticity.

Victor was plagued with the temptation to holler "Hands off." But the cyclops's serene gaze was almost amusing. Unburdened too. Maybe that was perks of being so simple and devoid of any accomplishments. Maybe that guy doesn't fear losing because he's so comfortable with it.

Yet for a loser, he sure seems to have his mind set on victory, that way he idly tapped on the trophy. Feh, as if that got him through the first round.

Victor's next step alerted the cyclops.

The cyclops wasn't startled. Didn't flinch or apologize for red-handedly touching someone else's property. They locked eyes for a few seconds that moved like minutes. The cyclops, though short, had a spark of fearlessness in his eye, perhaps guarded by his naive spirit, one of a child who would rejoice over a penny stuck to the grimy floor of a school bus.

The cyclops simply nodded at him.

"Congrats on your last win."

* * *

The time came. Everyone gathered to the dance floor.

Before stepping up to the stage, Victor and Alec ushered their brothers to get into their positions, out of sight from the crowd.

It was a ritual for Victor to congratulate and praise all the invited frats and sororities. He and Alec stood there on the upper stage, slyly ushering their brothers to get into their positions, out of sight from the crowd. Rex gave a shaky thumb-ups, some amateur attempt at being professional, before vanishing.

Naturally, Victor first praised the survivors of the round, those he was sure to beat in the future.

Then, he uttered, "Although these folks were in last place, we can still acknowledge them and admire their efforts."

It was simple enough. Beckon them to the center. All six (seven, counting the twins, but he wanted to pretend that the head who hit on Jackie didn't exist) stepped to the center, glowing. He very much expected their smiles, their happiness at the feeble recognition, as if it was one of the highest honor to receive his approval and compliments.

And then he'll lift his hand up. The signal. His brothers were on the ceiling.

And from the ceiling, the items poured on Slugma Beta.

Pat and Jacob threw down the rainbow of slime. Juevo threw out the glitter. And as a finale, Rex threw out the stuffed animals.

Save for Slugma Beta, the party floor was a chorus of a community. An audience. Witnesses to a momentous event. Sharing laughter.

Alec elbowed Victor to join in the laughter. But Victor was in no mood to laugh.

He just grinned at the sight. He wasted all his energy. Maybe it was because the joke was growing stale because the sight was too familiar. Sure they kept the joke fresh by switching colors and fancying it with stuff like glitter and stuffed animals. Amazing how such banal objects can stir a reaction. Amazing, that the subject of their pranks always looked so hurt, too naive to laugh with the joke.

Their joke deserved something other than rambunctious laughter.

So he applauded with grace, like the sophisticated slow clap of his father's and grandfather's mannerisms, whenever both patriarchal figures watched their heir's victory at the Games for the expected confirmation of their heir's ability.

He had the urge to clap louder over the blaring laughter, but he could not beat the ruckus.

His biggest joy was that Jackie was laughing, a shrill chortle, mixed in with the beat of snapping photos, with Alec's pincher pressing on the camera button. The rest of the brothers joined him at the stage. Jake and Pat bellowed their chortling. Even shy Rex beamed, as if he was witnessing something new, like a child who received a life-changing birthday gift. His smile matched all that of them.

Rex's smirk was intimidating like a true Scarer. That's what mattered.

Juevo exchanged approving glances with Rex and even slapped him a five.

Now Victor felt it was his turn to show Rex approval. He reached out to give Rex a hearty backslap.

Unfortunately, Victor underestimated the strength of his palm and Rex's punier size. His pat was meant to be affectionate, like when his dad pounded his back when he had stepped down from the graduation podium. Rex lunged forward and looked back at Victor, his fearful eye wondering what he did wrong. Rex's utterance of a flimsy "sorry" (at least Victor's could read his moving lips) seemed like a sudden reflex than deliberate. Rex had misinterpreted the backslap gesture as one of senseless bullying and disapproval.

Fortunately, their other brothers and the crowd was too busy laughing, so only Victor bore witness to Rex's despair.

Victor didn't watch the loser-frat drag themselves out. Well, he did, but rather indirectly. In the corner of his peripheral version, he could see the tallest one clutching the smallest, who seemed to be choking out sobs. With the speed and spirit of slugs, they trudged out, so vulnerable even when huddled up, with public eyes following their movement, until they were out of sight, and Victor couldn't enjoy that, though he swore he caught the flash of betrayal in the cyclops's eye.

He was too busy deciding how to atone for the unintentional mistreatment of Rex.

* * *

As he maintained a grin when waving at exiting guests, Victor expected the wave of dullness when the party ended. He doesn't exactly remember his victory, but rather, the loss of the victorious joy. Sure, Alec had a photographed those priceless moments, but it wasn't the same as being in the moment. Speaking of which, Alec was arranging the photos for school publications and merchandizing. They will sell these photos for charity drives soon. Victor knew his mother will be proud. Chet's parents will be proud. But those reassurances couldn't make the dullness fade.

His last comfort tonight was Jackie's good night kiss and the softness of her her playful fingers slipped off his cheeks as she departed for the night.

To alleviate the dull ache, Victor strolled around the Hall of Achievement. He didn't bother to stop at the doorway of the study to wave at Juevo, whom he knew was buried back in late-night reading.

In a glass casing sat a high school document with Victor's name and a with satin Valedictorian sash lined delicately around the framed document. Next to that document was a photo of himself in robes, with his prideful father next to him. But scoring Valedictorian was a thing of the past, four years behind from his senior-hood at the University.

Victor remembered those medals and cords, fondly recalling the ounces of weight added upon his great shoulders. He could still feel the hearty slap on his back his father gave him at he stepped down from the podium, waving his diploma.

A light thump.

A presence.

He dismissed it first as instinct or a moment of mild paranoia, but then he fancied that something was breathing.

Rex?

He detected Rex by the morph and budge of the transparent air. Right by the trophy pedestal.

"Rex?"

Very gradually, the budging transparent air became to form in color and tangible body.

"I'm sorry, some guy touched that trophy, I-I-I only wanted to clean it." Kid seemed still shaken up by the backslap.

Rex wasn't uttering some flimsy excuse for his presence. On the gleaming rim was a smudge, like a blemish on an otherwise clean cheek, right where the cyclops contaminated it with his touch.

"Jeez, kid, don't sweat it."

He rubbed the smudge with his woolen sleeve. The fingerprint faded but its smudge seemingly absorbed into the false gold metal, into a wider but faded fog of a mark.

He needed to wipe away Rex's insecurities too while he was at it. If the kid kept displaying weakness, he might as well be as useless and silly as pink heart-patterned carpet his mom brought home from a yard sale once.

And then Victor thought of his mother. Positive reinforcement was something mom advocated. On the rare occasions she had substituted for dad and grandpa in Scare training during his childhood, she praised his techniques and moves rather than hollering order after order. Her put-downs were gentle and lulling.

Now to end the lull in the conversation. But Victor kept his eyes on the faded stain. "Rex, you did good that night... Your aim really matches up with the other guys. The way you hurled those stuff animals. You're our best freshman recruit yet." And he considered himself relieved that it was true, being that Rex was the second freshman recruit he knew at Alpha Omega.

He didn't even look at Rex when he reached out and patted the kid's back, taking care to do it more lightly, a reassurance that the previous backslap was just an accidental heavy display of praise.

Victor couldn't tear his eyes off his image on the shining trophy. Not to be self-indulgent. Not to be narcissistic, but because he noticed something off about his expression.

Not because of the rather comical distortion that rounded his face on the false gold (even then, it didn't hinder his Scariness), but something else. Not pride. Not worry. Maybe uneasiness. But it was introspection.

His reflection would remind him that he had a Scarer build by biological birthright, but how could he possess his own name? Sure, the only distinction in his name was "the Third." But even then, it indicated his name was in a succession of the greater names before him. That was why, he hoped that on his Scarer trading card, he would request "Vickie" to be put on. Funny. But if anyone, likely his father, said otherwise ("son, what's the matter with your real name?"), he would explain to them that Vickie was what his frat pals and Jackie called him. He'll have more fun explaining the joke rather than being a recipient of it. A tribute to Jackie.

He could see Rex's face entering into the reflection, as he felt that he warranted enough of Victor's trust not to feel misplaced in this moment. In the peripheral vision, he saw Rex so reverently and quiet, taking part in the sanctity. He felt like he should snicker at the moment as both of their reflections oozed into rounded, distorted reflections. Didn't stop them from making indirect eye contact on the trophy.

Rex's demeanor, one now of steady determination, seemed to have improved from Victor's one compliment. But that didn't cure the apprehension. Rex's eyes seemed to say, _"If I bring the team down, you won't let me forget it. I won't let you down."_

If that was really in Rex's mind, Victor compelled himself to mentally reply, _"Rex, no one, especially dad, granddad, Alec's dad, OUR dads, the school" will let us forget it._

Then Victor wondered, who else, beside him and their frat brothers and the frat families, who will make Rex forget it? What relatives would care about Rex's performance? Rex got no Scarer parents. Rex has no part in a family legacy... yet. That kid will found his own legacy. Rex could pick any girlfriend without the judgment of his dad. He could be staring at Rex Cunningham the First. Funny.

Beyond Rex Cunningham possibly-the-First, was the towering, glaring portrait of dad.

Victor didn't have to look directly at the painted glare. Its imagined omniscience reminded Victor that he was destined to become some oversized portrait, perhaps to be looked upon by his son and yet-to-be frat boys, and he wondered if he might have inherited that same fatherly glare of Victor Champ II.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

* * *

_Man, does ROR have so much money that they just pass out boxfuls of books to each members like there're candy? Even to rejected guys like Sulley?_

With the looming deadline on the Portfolio, Terry crammed some extensive research. Flipping through the ROR books to scout for inspiration, he was shocked to find how extensive the Roar Omega Roar publications were. They must have an abundance of funds to afford themselves the luxury of specialized ROR publications of miscellaneous books and magazines, including personalized ROR Yearbooks.

"Geez," breathed Terry as he flipped through the pages of a personalized ROR Yearbook from the 1960s. "They _re-print_ old books. Their old Yearbooks. As if they considered that generations later, some random student would take interest in their history." Certainly that quote from Worthington senior explained that all.

"You should write Oozma Kappa books." Art called out from his bunk. "And hire me as an illustrator! I'll work free of charge!"

"Aw, Art! Don't encourage him! He's been so obsessing over writing homework - stuff he won't even let me read - that I'm not getting sleep."

Terry dug through the books, muttering, "Hm, Worthington. Worthington. Worthington..."

"Hurry up, you got an essay to finish you know! And I, we, got a dance final. And what's with you and Worthington?"

Terri, eager to speed up Terry's studies, reached into the box for a book. "Try this. _The Unsung Matriarchs of ROR_. By Shirley Worthington."

* * *

Critique by Prof. Tulley

_This story would probably be categorized as a Slice-of-Life. **[1]** Have you ever read "Farewell My Brother" by Jim __Cleaver? It's an example of a short story where side characters, namely the relatives, have a limited part in the protagonist's arc, despite their heavy characterization, and develop the psychological input of the protagonist rather than having a role. With this draft finished, decide which side characters can remain integral to the tone or the story arc. Decide what you want to cut and keep to not clutter your story. You are free to decide to keep everything if quality permits. **[2]**_

_There are two conflicts that deserve more convergence. We have the protagonist humiliating a frat, and then him contemplating his Scarer heritage. They do tie in together as both reflect his superiority complex, a trademark of this character. But they need to mesh in together plot-wise, as the protagonist's inner anguish seem to operate as a separate entity from the actual events. __I suggest that you externalize the psychological conflict somehow. Increase some present pressure. An example of pressure would be the guy worried about his upcoming performance. __The parents come and go as flashback characters for internal conflict._

_One conventional option is to involve the parents' appearance in a later draft, though this might involve tweaking the circumstances to fit them into the story. __While it's possible to let internal conflict characterize the entire story, externalizing the conflict can open opportunity to explore the character's journey and give him a solid (in)tangible obstacle in his current conflict._

* * *

_Ava-Kane's note_

_Citations_

_**[1]** \- In her review, UntoldStories113 admitted the story moves as a "snail's pace." This is somewhat attributed to the chosen Slice-of-Life format and Terry is continuing to search for more solid tension as Tulley implies in his second paragraph._

_**[2]** \- UntoldStories113 assessed that this draft was intentionally "overloaded on unimportant characters" as Terry remains closer to recording to his memory. Indeed Tulley had to notice too.  
_

_Allusions/References_

_\- "Farewell My Brother" alludes to an actual short story by John Cheever by the name of "Goodbye My Brother."_


	8. Young Cyclops

_**Ava-Kane's Revision Timelog for Chapter 8**_

**8/6/13- **Original chapter's posting. Message left regarding the pending critique of Tulley

**8/25/13- **critique completed with the submission of a reviewer. See below.

**8/27/13- **FOOTNOTES INSERTED. The symbol **[#]** does not exist within the context of the story but will mark areas where I integrated your reviews and clarified the implied responses in the below-citations. The footnotes will mainly cover aspects that were influenced by the reviews rather than what was planned earlier.

* * *

**End of semester final portfolio requirements**

_Revise/Polish your drafts the best you can. Disregard old guidelines and revise them however you want them to be._

_Contents for Portfolio_

_1) Revised prompt 1_

**_2) Revised prompt 2_**

_3) A revised poem_

_4) End-of-semester reflection paper._

* * *

"You will clean this mess, right?" Terri flicked at a crumbled ball of halfway-attempted-Draft-Number-Four of "Victor Champ."

"As soon as I finish this draft."

"Oh, this again."

A sigh. "I'll be quicker on this one." Terry whipped out his first draft of "The Littlest Cyclops" and a Scarer card of Tracey, Stacey, &amp; Casey Kowalski, a farewell token from Mike.

* * *

**The Young Cyclops**

**By Terry Perry**

I would remember first that I discovered a stray nickel on the grimy floor of my school bus before my brushes with death beyond the Monster World. I would remember disposing of the nickel somewhere and regretting that I couldn't hold it for long.

I exited last, having been distracted by the gleam of that nickel. With a thanks to the bus driver, I sprinted off the bus step. My kindergarten teacher ordered us to buddy up with someone. That must have been when I tossed the nickel away as it took a surprising amount of time to snag the hand of a blue fuzzy classmate with eyes so glassy and unenthusiastic about the adventure ahead of him.

The scale of Monsters Inc. stood humongous. Smoke from the chimneys and the thunder of construction in the distance due to its constantly expanding Floors. I would have been terrified by its size if I weren't so excited. I could spend centuries exploring the factory.

"C'mon, we're falling behind." My hand tugged on the arm of my oblivious blue fuzz of a partner toward our classmates, gathered to entrance of M.I.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

We reached the edge of the caution line of the Scare Floor entrance when the tour guide herded us to the side to make space for the Scarer. I broke from my partner's flimsy grip, because I didn't want to have to drag him around as I tried to secure the best view.

All the Scarers, like a colorful sea, headed toward us, marching with every gradual, dignified step. Straight ahead with resolve and dedication, their eyes aimed toward the horizon of the Scare Floor.

One of them, a slim dark-blue octopus fellow, blithely whistled a tune that sounded like an anthem. He turned his head and grinned at us, announcing that he was Frank, a recent University alumni, a rookie ready for his daily Scare, and he implored us to watch the Scarers closely to learn.

The ceiling windows were shut, dimming the Scare floor. All Scare Assistants lined up at the desk stations. In slide the closet doors, wheeling from the ceilings and lowered to their station.

The view wasn't enough. I pushed my way to the front for the better view of the Scare Floor. But the tour guide's arm shot out before me, lightly pushing back from the line, warning us that only Scarers could cross the line. They wanted to protect us from the toxicity of children. They didn't trust us to stay still. I didn't understand it. It wasn't as if we could get a tour in a child's bedroom.

However, distracted by the guide's quip, it gave my durn classmates a chance to get pushy and bunch up to the front, shoving me right to the back with the tight and repelling force of a trampoline surface, like I never belonged on the Scare Floor. My protests were drowned out by their feeble imitation roar and musings. "I wanna be a Scarer," they shouted before belching out their roars. They reveled in their aspirations and they left me out. Scurried side to side, peering over heads, looking under legs to capture flashing glimpses of Scarers.

The pace of the Scare Floor ensued. From the distance, a scream. A holler. The clinks of canisters filling up. But I could see none of it.

Then came the squeak and rolling clinks of Scream cans from behind. Some worker was carting some empty canisters, about three times my size, onto the Floor.

Sudden inspiration struck me.

I felt blessed to be of shorter average height. Evading everyone's sight was easy.

Next thing I knew, I jumped onto the side of the canister, clinging for dear life like I was rock climbing. The can wobbled, I nearly pushed my fingernails into the metal, but didn't topple over. I was too light to weigh it down.

I seemed to be embracing the hollowness of the canisters. By miracle, no one saw me. It was like a risky tour for dear life. I passed by the Scarers and they pass by like the scenery beyond a moving car window.

I became one with the rhythm of a Scare Floor. The hisses, the roars, the rumbling of machineries, the dings of canisters filling to the max, the patter of feet and tentacles as they entered and exited, the clasping of shutting and opening doors, the shuffle of the scoreboard on the wall, all resonating like a jazzy tune.

I caught glimpses of Scarers, so lifelike that I need not trading cards to remember them. Scarers of all shapes and sizes. A pink fuzz ball, about my size, flicking out her spider legs and baring her fangs before crawling in. A grayish-blue old tarantula-mustached furry robust giant of four eyes and an endowment of pass-retirement age marching into a room. A lavender triple-headed Dino-bird with long crocodile-snouts and steely gazes exiting a door.

The wobbling movement of the can exhausted by puny arms and made it difficult to enjoy the view. But alas, I had two choices: fall off and risk a stumble or drop off and try a safe landing.

I realized I had gone too far and I had to face a furious teacher sooner or later. I'll go with the latter and take my sweet time around here.

I happened to drop myself off in front of Frank's door station, as he fingered the knob of his door. I stepped forward, taking care not to dash after him and become visible to teacher.

No one shouted. No one saw. It was just the door, between me and the dimension of the human world. Incredible, how the flatness of the door contained an entire forbidden world where the worthiest monsters braved through.

Frank's hand twisted the knob and braced himself to dive into entrance.

The distant shriek of my teacher didn't faze me. That chestnut door closed so smoothly, as Frank possessed the Scarer proficiency to use the momentum of a door and close it as he entered deeper into the room.

Drunk with awe, it wasn't enough to watch Frank slinking into the human dimension. I had to join him inside!

The door began swinging shut...

First, it was halfway open. The crown of a figure, a child's head, peeping over a bedpost. Closing. The sight of the room. Closing. The silhouette of the lumps of toys from a distance. The shape of Frank shifting over to the side. Ajar. The darkness of the room morphed up all the images inside.

I edged myself into the darkness, just barely brushing the rim of the door and into the darkness and coolness of the child's room, the toy silhouette materialized into their clumpy shapes as I veered closer.

The door clasp shut, shutting out the sound of the escalating gasps, clambering of feet toward me, and the cry of my teacher so rapidly that I thought my hearing had immediately left me. But I could hear the woosh of Frank's body shifting and the snoozing of the child.

If weren't for instinct, I would have been stabbed by the jumping jacks of the bedroom. One of its pokes was inches away from pricking my eyeball. I shifted to the side, close to the wall. The child's room was a spacey room with the mines of toys, containing its lurking toxicity, scattered around, plastic logs of a half-built castle, tiny tennis balls, action figures, blocks labeled with letters, loose laundry. Despite the unknown danger, the room seemed comforting and secure, much like my room. But one touch of toxicity and I'll drop dead.

Frank navigated his tentacles through the barrage of toys, slithered, and morphed into the shadows, concocting his improvised choreography according to the (de)arrangement of the obstacles. I saw those child scribbling of Frank on its wall, a messy scribble of blue and evil eyes, barely fitting Frank's shape but clear enough to discern that it was an illustration of Frank. How many times has Frank been in that kid's room? He knew this kid and left such memorable but fleeting impressions that the kid could only make feeble attempts to recreate what he saw and knew of Frank.

Hopping over blocks and jumping jacks to get a good view of Frank, I bit my lips. I shivered, not because of the cold, but rather that my heart pumped so obtusely in the excitement enough to make the rushing blood in my brain tingle my head. If Frank saw me, he would have snatched me away, and I would ruin his glory! I stayed close to the wall right toward that other door...

And the child wasn't the only danger.

Without warning, a door opened, not the closet. Light from the hallway poured into the room. I scrambled away from the opening door, my back gluing itself to the wall. Frank scurried to the back, tentacles flying over the toys and laundry, as if chased by the increasing light and hurled himself on a coat hanger.

In a swift woosh_,_ Frank transformed into a miscellaneous coat hanging on the rack. Swaying so slightly with his mop of tentacles in the dark.

The parents had nearly opened the door on me. They pause in seconds that ran like minutes. I froze. My breath froze, but I swore that my heartbeats echoed through the room. I couldn't zip my mouth as it would obstruct my airway, but I could keep my mouth partially open, and permit some soft inhale, exhale. I learned then that breathing can be fatal in the Scaring Field.

The voices of adults sounded surprisingly soothing. I saw them through the creak of the door hinges, cladded in colored pajamas. The only glimpse I had of human parents were illustrations in scary children's books Mom read to me. They were always those towering shadows on the child's bed. Though shorter than those illustrated depictions, they radiated with the threat of toxicity.

"I've told you, he's fine," murmured the mom.

No entity detected in the room. The mom and dad departed, shutting the door.

Frank waited two or three seconds before the parents' departure and crawled to the bedpost where he methodically scratched on the front of the child's bedpost, enough to startle the child awake, light enough to leave no trace of visible scratches, and the child lifted its head, now awake and suspecting, its curious eyes like glinting marbles, and Frank slipped off to the bedside away from where the kid looked.

Frank lifted his great claws and spread his tentacles-arms wide, as if preparing to snatch the child, then summoned out his claws. Of course, he couldn't touch the poisonous child, but the child did not have to know that.

In gradual realization, the child's head turned toward Frank, sensing the heaviest of a looming presence behind him.

The child's shiver built into a shudder as it uttered a soft whimper, followed by a millisecond of a cry...

I braced myself for Frank's roar, only to discover that Scarers didn't always require a roar to extract scream. Frank only needed the dull toothy frown on his face.

Then the child found its breath to scream.

Aware that the adult parents could burst in at any moment, the scream was my cue to move toward the closet door and I narrowly missed Frank as he vanished from the bedside.

Exiting was a lot easier than entering because I ready felt familiar with the room. I stepped over the toys and laundry with no fear of stumbling and remained close to the wall. Frank dived right in front of me, his tentacles inches in front of me. I could grab his tentacles, but I couldn't disturb him. I didn't want to startle him.

Frank didn't see me until he was back on the Scare Floor. I trailed right behind and eluded him.

And it was back into the warmth of the Scare Floor as I edge into the closet before Frank closed it. I didn't hear the machinery or the hissing. Not one Scream Cans clinking. Dead silence, save for Frank stepping out.

My eye nearly teared up at the shock of light in the sudden transition to the factory environment. What relieved my vision was that Frank's stature eclipsed a fraction of the factory lights from my eye.

He stood as a large figure in front of me, a comforting shadow over me. He turned his head back, not because he noticed me, but to shut his door. It was only when he looked straight did he seem to realize something. I would remember that he remarked a perplexed syllable under his breath. But then he shifted to the side with a double-take, revealing me in the light, before an audience of terrified onlookers, my teacher among them, eyes bulging wide, mouths locked agape and aghast.

The entire Scare Floor had been forced to a halt in motion and noise alike.

Why was I still smiling?

Everyone bunched up toward me, clutching first-aid kits, medics on standby. They accused me with their frantic questions. _Did you touch anything? Young man, did you have a death wish?_

Slipping on his cap, Frank, naturally, joined the chorus of concerns, knelt down to me, covering me back in shadow. "That was real dangerous, kid," Frank scolded. "I didn't know you were in there!" He chided like a parent who had just snatched his kid away from busy traffic road.

It hurt. He meant well. Had he probably seen me in the child room's, he would have ditched the mission, disregarded the empty screen can, and snatched me to safety. I understood his concern, but his disappointment hurt like a wound.

But then, I detected a little smile playing on his lips. "Wow," he breathed. All that pragmatic instinct to reproach me faded.

Then he said it again, this time, as a compliment.

"I didn't know you were in there... not bad, kid." He could not let my efforts go un-commended. He laid his navy blue cap upon my head with a wink. Maybe if he had the time, just maybe if the Scare Floor would have permitted him, he might have had time to clarify the gesture. But no, he knew he had only a few seconds before my teacher will interfere.

He dissolved back into the crowd to permit my teacher to confront me, no longer obscuring me in shadow and the ceilings lights shined on me, as if Frank allowed the environment to shine its spotlights on me, right down on my wide grin.

My facial reflexes were set locked on the grin. Before, I liked Scaring. Liked what I've heard about it. The grueling jobs, their fearsome skills, their awesome poses in their trading cards. But now I have seen it all and loved it.

I sensed the onslaught of forthcoming consequences. I could get detention. I could get expelled. Or worse, my school days would get voluntarily revoked by Mom and Dad, who will handle the punishment from there. Dad would never take me on outings again. Mom would confine me to my room and bar my sisters from playing with me.

I could bear the punishment. It was all worth it.

As my teacher escorted me to the exit, the crowd dispersed like a wave, all eyes on me, fearful that I emerged with a scratch. I saw my smiles in their frantic and reprimanding eyes. Scarers gathered with disquiet in their eyes. Few assistants griped their hard hats at their chests. Although their expressions ranged from worry to anger to relief, it all felt like one congratulating procession making way for me. I loved to imagine that they writhed with envy. How could they missed a child the sneaking across the Scare Floor? How did a Kindergardener survive the Human World unscathed? No training, no college education, barely any build, how did the kid do it?

That triple-headed Dino ladies poked their lavender heads through the crowd to scrutinize me like a distressed mother, sighed in relief so simultaneously that the breeze of their breath brushed my eye, and darted their heads back.

Although there was no alarm, no cause to reset the entire Floor, I spied a worker slapping the Accident-Free Day meter to set to 0. I was an incident, here, on a Scare Floor. I imagined that the recorded cause of accident was that some field trip kindergardener snuck in Frank's room. I survived the child's room. I was the tiny entity who watched the famous entity of Frank.

The fact that I didn't emerged with a trace of fear, my classmates called it "cool" (and it would be the sole act of appreciation to me) and my sisters would be in big-eyed awe when they heard my story. Most adults, particularly Mom and Dad, perceived it as "trauma," that I was too shocked to process what happened to really comprehend fear or discomfort. Mom would go as far as to blatantly assume "post trauma stress disorder," puzzled at how I was able to move on.

Frank, although he never voiced it aloud, had considered it an achievement, one by a precocious child, driven by ambitious curiosity.

But the feeling of glory on the Scare Floor had flown as swift as the moment I held onto that nickel, a brief joy that ended like a breeze extinguishing a lighted match. I would mourn that the moment could only exist as a memory, haunting me like a dull presence, a shade of joy that would be again. And the only way to retrieve that raw joy would be to summon back the memory and do all things Scaring, spending my childhood years scribbling Scary chalk drawings on the pavement, creeping around my sisters' rooms to spook them, evading myself from Mom's supervision to exercise stealth, pleading Dad to bring me Scare trading cards, and tack posters on the wall as I wore Frank's cap, pretending that it infused all of Frank's experiences into my brain and body.

I would lie awake in bed, staring up at a poster of Frank, daydreaming that Frank and Scarers mused about cyclops on the Scare Floor over their lunch break sometimes.

_"Remember when that kindergardener snuck into my door? Didn't see him until he was out with me!"_

_"In all my decades of work, I never seen a kid like him,"_ I imagined that gigantic old grey mustached Scarer seated next to Frank.

_"What a fright he gave us all! Everyone stopped what they did when they saw the commotion. He stopped the entire Scare Floor!"_ I imagined that top head of the three-heads of that Dino Scarer, sitting across from Frank, would be remarking this as her two lower sister heads dug into the lunch tray.

And Frank had the last word._ "To think that he was the only fearless one on the Scare Floor in that moment."_

I still had remembered what I've asked to my teacher and myself.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" She had said as she forcibly dragged me toward the bus.

"Will I ever be a Scarer?" I had uttered, freshly half-aghast and elated by the adventure, with the airy weight of Frank's cap on my benign head, and not knowing that years later, I will be slipping a Scarer trading card of my face, next to a card of Frank McCay.

* * *

Critique by Prof. Tulley

_One line, "I became one with the rhythm of the Scaring Floor" _**[2]**_ would probably be the most evocative of the overall story and you could spruce up the atmosphere based on that quote. __Some recommended improvement would be to, yes, enhance the sensory feel. I feel this is just a few drafts away from a desired final product. Experiment with events and illustrations._

_The question of "Will I ever be a Scarer?" veers into obvious territory, as the story proceeds to give it an easy answer: yes, he reaches his dream. In the previous draft, it asked "How." The revision in semantic reduces the character's confidence compared to the last draft. If he ask "How..." it indicates no suspense but an anticipation of an inevitable destination. __I preferred the open-ended "How do I become a Scarer?" which would avert the simple yes or no question, as if the kid has a longer journey ahead and the answer would neither be a "yes" or "no," but a more difficult open-ended answer. With "How," he's leaning toward "yes," but it implies his consciousness of a difficult journey ahead of him. It's your call whether to regard this advice. Do realize that subtle semantics in dialogue can make a difference._

_Ideal closures offer a sense of continuation beyond the ending. End on optimism, not a happy ending. __Perhaps if you wanted to wrap up this story, I recommend that you omit the abrupt epilogue and leave it at "...the airy weight of Frank McCay's cap on his benign head."_

* * *

_Note from Ava-Kane_

_Citations_

**[1] **_In her last review for chapter 7, UntoldStories113 stated that the "Victor Champ" draft didn't feel like a "next draft" but rather a "fourth/fifth draft." Terri's little action and the crumbled paper was inserted during the making of this chapter to comply with UntoldStories's assessment._

**[2]**_ UntoldStories113 quoted this line, noting that it was consistent with Tulley's call for more "romanticizing" in the first draft. I placed it in Tulley's critique as a means to allude to Untoldstories113's review._

_Allusions/References_

_\- Earl the Terror and Tracey, Stacey, &amp; Casey Kowalski make spiritual cameos._


	9. Final Portfolio: On Writing

_**Ava-Kane's Revision Timelog for Chapter 9**_

_**8/25/13-**_The chapter's original post and original author's note.

_**8/27/13- **FOOTNOTES INSERTED. The symbol _**[#]**_ does not exist within the context of the story but will mark areas where I integrated your reviews and clarify the implied responses in the below-citations. The footnotes will mainly cover aspects that were influenced by the reviews rather than what was planned earlier.__  
_

* * *

_Note by Ava-Kane,_

_CHAPTER 7 &amp; 8 are UPDATED to involve Tulley's critique for each prompts. A timelog has been inserted in these chapters, according to updates._

_This process was an experiment as close as I can to stimulating "real time" events as Terry completes works as Tulley thinks out his critiques. The content of the critiques are semi-modeled after reception of the chapters, particularly from my sole reviewer (and my respected Beta-reader), UntoldStories113. _

_So bear in mind, that any feedback in the future, from overtly analytical to small and concise, are welcomed. And I will integrate them the best I can into the story._

* * *

**End of semester final portfolio**

Revise your drafts. Disregard old guidelines and revise them however you want them to be.

_Contents for Portfolio_

_1) Revised prompt 1_

_2) Revised prompt 2_

**_3) A revised poem_**

**4) _End-of-semester reflection paper: Write about the writing experience. _**

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Slipping into the Human Shape**

impossible to replicate their

lungful of scream

but to achieve its shape is not impossible.

but the privilege of this ability is limited to a few mons,

who can distort appearance of biological build

wedged tentacles in into humanly limbs.

only in shadows can this be executed.

caution the shadow dimensions of the window light the nightlight,

the human-shaped entity

initiating the comforting image until the mon

unfurls from its homo sapient shape.

its candid, fearsome form emerging in dim light

shattering the illusion of its former appearance

eliciting a child's potent shrill screams

while lodging its polluted cries within its throat

its old perceptions fooled.

:::

The entity departs,

as itself.

* * *

_Terry Perry_

**Reflection Paper: Toying With Experience and Ideas**

I found myself stealing from other's lives more than my my own. When writing someone else's story, I had to compromise between truths and fiction. The intent of prose can be like the motive for derivative works, coined as "fan-works" or "fanfiction," an inherent expression of self-pandering and/or contemplation (typically preferred and challenging): inspiration to write that missing scene and unspoken introspection in the novel or film to stave your curiosity.

Both my first drafts required further inspiration for improvement. "Cyclops" might have started as underwhelmingly biographical and "Champ Victor" was too blunt to tell a story. I worked on the "Cyclops" draft the least, finding myself more devoted to "Champ Victor." I simply essentially edited over "Cyclops," copying it, sprucing the sentences, and adding new content. I rewrote the entire Champ Victor because it needed drastic revision. The protagonist, Champ, began with generic origins, a pop bully-antagonist, the bully who could exist in real life, yet generally too one-dimensional to be appealing in storytelling.

In "Champ Victor," I knew very well I ran straight the bias route and vilified the protagonist. Considering your critique, I sought to demonize him less. He might even be a classic role-model sometimes. At the end of the day, it is the same jerk, but with an addition of grayer morality. He simply was so sure and sincere of his finer qualities, that he mentally downplayed his heinous deeds. I settled on making his internal thoughts more sympathetic but his deeds blatantly cruel. Still, the trouble was concluding his arc. How do you close a story when a protagonist never grows up? But then it occurred to me that, yes, he may grow up, but not in a productive or progressive way. I searched for an ending where Victor improves a shred less than he should.

Discovery is imminent. New story contents form along the way. Discovery emerged while writing the middle of "Victor Champ." Little did I know that I would allow a background character in the first draft to emerge and have a role in Victor's new ending. It happened in the poetry assignments as well, being unrestricted by my chosen free verse format. Despite my initial aversion to poetry, an assigned obligation, it helped me to arrange fragments of thoughts into meanings. Poetry turned out to be a liberal exercise in structuring meaningful sentences and the spontaneity of ideas. Plot points or ideas appeared in the spur of the moment, as if every following sentences and ideas come forward on paper.

Some ideas are rooted in life experiences rather than originality. Whenever I was at a loss for idea, sometimes I can turn to my own personal experiences. The "Cyclops" draft was lifted almost directly from a friend's story, but I layered the account with elements outside of the actual events. I integrated my experience at Monsters Inc. to vivify the environment. Characters, based on mons I knew in real life, appeared, as spiritual cameos. I found myself alluding to my own childhood memories to spruce up the cyclops's character and conscience, allowing my experiences to bled over his story. **[1]**

When I only know a fraction of the reality, what do I need to fill in the gaps of the unknown and unwitnessed? The point-of-view of someone who was present for something I was not there for? How much I should distort or exaggerate based on the point-of-view? It is the balance of the life of someone else, the life of mine, the imagination that emerge in the moment. How do I remain true to real-life when fictionalizing it? The exhausting part is that the answer varies, depending on what story I want to tell.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_It's been an honor to have you as a student. And thanks to your brother, who has gotten less fidgety in class. Thank him for being a source of inspiration._

_You're among the few students who openly admit to engaging in the carthasis-driven works. Perhaps I may recommend you to Dr. Audrey Reynolds as she still has openings for her Short Story Memoir class. She can teach you how memoirish techniques make a fine short story, whether fictional or nonfictional._

_Don't be shy of sharing them to others' as they might offer useful input for the improvement of your writing._

_Professor Tulley._

* * *

"I've never thought of it that way," mused Terri as he pursued through the Portfolio contents.

"Never thought of what?"

"Well, just the idea that Worthington can have good thoughts while doing bad things. How do I put this?"

"I know, it's hard for me to put that on paper."

"That guy, um, Mike's old pal, the lizard in (or used to be) Roar Omega Roar, Ran...Ran... Randy?"

"Randall? The guy, the ex-roommate Mike rarely mentions?"

"I thought you said you despised that guy. And here you..."

And Terry, moved that Terri had paid close attention to his writing, had an instinctive response: "I still loathe them all the same. Randall. Worthington. Maybe Worthington deserves most of the rap... And so... " A sigh. "If I was writing a story where Worthington got some resemblance of a sympathetic depiction from me, it's fair that Boggs guy should get the same treatment from me." **[2]**

But Terry made no attempt to bury the bitterness in his voice.

* * *

_Note from Ava-Kane,_

_This chapter is dedicated to my Short Stories professor, for being a patient teacher to me and assigning the reflection paper that inspired this chapter. The mention of Dr. Reynolds is NOT lifted from the monstersuniversity site as she shares the surname of my professor._

_Citations_

**[1] **_In the previous review for chapter 8, UntoldStories113 observed that the Mike-avatar in the "Young Cyclops" draft mentioned "sisters." Those who know their Pixar trivia, know that Mike as at least one extra-canon sister according to an MU deleted scene mentioned by Billy Crystal. However, the paragraph regarding how Terry incorporates his experience IS the subtle allusion to the "sisters." UntoldStories113's speculation about the "sisters" can be found in her review for this chapter, but the actual answer is clarified in the next chapter._

**[2] **_The question about the treatment of Randall (named "Rex" by Terry) in the "Champ Victor" drafts is NOT to be publicly seen in the Reviews page. In a Private Message discussion with UntoldStories113, she mentioned that she felt that Terry treated Randall a little too impartially considering his mistreatment and betrayal of Mike. While this effect was intentional from the start, during the making of this chapter, I inserted the Terry-Terri discussion about Randall's and Worthington's character to further develop and clarify the intention._

_Influences/sources/allusions_

_\- Dan Scanlon's Blu-Ray commentary that Worthington was modeled after the "80s pop villain."_


	10. Letters to the Perrys at Home

_Note from Ava-Kane,_

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS UPDATE OF 8/27/14_\- special footnotes are inserted in the precious chapters and the below-citations will indicate where I integrated your reviews/critiques and clarified my responses._

_Because I don't know how Monsters name their states, the abbreviation of the state will be marked as "XX."_

* * *

Coral Perry

1130 Conjunction Avenue

Roarington, XX

_::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

_Dear Mom,_

_It's odd that I'm writing a letter when you're a phone call away. But I'm more inclined to think up what I say when I write. Aside from that, my friends have been on the phone with friends who just left the University. Also, __Mom, you said last phone call that you wish you could treasure every word through the phone. Well, now I made words for you to treasure and hang on the fridge. I know it's redundant to state good and bad news so I'll keep it fresh__. If you get bored by what I have to say, there's always the option to burn them and never speak of it._

_Sorry again that we have to prolong our stay at the household for a while. But we want to spend time with friends. Also, we're planning out our first Rush Week party and a wedding too! Our President Don will be married to the hostess of the household. The wedding is two months away! So at the end of July, we will return to the Oozma house for a few days to be the best men._

_Again, we're sorry you were too busy to see us at the Scare Games! Despite that major setback we've mentioned, y__ou've known already that we were invited back to the Scare Program. But what I'm articulating here is more than what I've told you over the phone. Such joy cannot be contained. I still remember being called into office of Dean Hardscrabble. She smiled, yes, she smiled. That's better than the Scare Games! We celebrated with cake. The house was cheery._

_I'll admit there are some, as Don would call it, downsizing to the opportunity. It would mean putting off those Creative Writing classes for next year, but at least I have room for Short Story Memoir class for a minor in Creative Writing. Though Terri __would have to devote himself less to dancing. Yes, I complained of that extraneous exercise, but I'm beginning to miss the jazz classes. At least, we have Dance Club and Terri wants to try Zumba out at the rec._

_We're quite sorry that the recent Scaring induction adds an extra semester at MU (at least the plan is that we Oozmas can graduate together). We will help out with the tuitions costs the best we can. __The Campus Roar newspapers are opening positions and Terri is pushing me to apply. Oh, and there's that literary magazine that accepts submissions. Maybe I'll submit some poetry or stories to earn some cash. If I get anything published, I'll send it to you._

_Enclosed are our photos of the Scare Games. Don't be alarm at the photos of us in the aftermath of the Toxicity Challenge. We got better. Give our love to Dad, the girls, and Aunt Cora._

_See you at home!_

_Your son,_

_Terry._

_P.S. Since I wrote to you, it's fair that we write to our sisters. _

* * *

Marlin Perry

1130 Conjunction Avenue

Roarington, XX

__::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::__

_Hey Dad,_

_We're in the Scare Program! You know that already but WOOOO! All your teachings really paid off. __You taught us well, Dad! And tell Uncle Merlin that too! On second thought, don't tell Uncle Merlin, let us do the explaining to him as we sneak up on him._

_We wish we can come home earlier, but we've got to help our friends plan out stuff. President Don is going to marry Mrs. Squibbles, you know, the nice owner of the Oozma Kappa house. We're also going to be at a wedding to be the best men the groom has ever had! And not to mention our plans to have our Rush Week first party next semester. Our first party that's not a birthday or holiday related! WOO!_

_Will you get tickets to the Jill &amp; Ray magic show? I've heard there're touring back in Roarington! Anna &amp; Anne should see it! We should totally take them there! Maybe Else can join us if her schedule permits. And let's take Mom too. After all, the first time we saw Jill &amp; Ray, it was the whole "don't tell your mom" deal, so now she should join us._

_I saved you some awesome photos of us in the Scare Games. Mom has some of it. You should take a look at what we've given her! _

_Your boys,_

_Terri &amp; Terry._

* * *

Anna &amp; Anne Perry

1130 Conjunction Avenue

Roarington, XX

_::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

_Dear Anna &amp; Anne,_

_We'll be home as soon as we can come home. But a fraternity brother is getting married and he needs our dance teachings. You know our President Don. He's marrying the owner of the Oozma house, Sheri Squibbles! The news of their engagement was surprisingly short notice and their wedding is only in two months! Since we know you love romantic gushy stuff, we'll give you some of the details that we couldn't say aloud while on the phone. I never told Don this, but we always liked to watch them leave the house and walk together, wondering what they talk about. It was just about time they admitted their feelings to each other. We don't know when the proposal took place but I remember catching them on the porch together. Ms. Squibbles was clutching Don and he seemed all tear-stricken, like he was in need of comfort. About a week after that cute little scene, they announced their engagement._

_I know you love hearing updates on the guys. Squishy is dealing with the fact that Don is marrying his mother. Can't blame him. It's weird having a fraternity brother marry your mother. Our roommate Art is excited and ready to preside over the wedding (yeah, we didn't know he was officiated to marry off couples. In fact, his certification had been hanging in our room the whole time). There's also Ms. Squibbles's old friend, the drama professor Dr. Foster, as her maid of honor and she's, in "theater terminology," blocking/staging the event as the maid of honor. __As for two more recent friends, Sulley and Mike, there're working as mail-sorters at Monsters Inc. and planning a visit for tomorrow__. Sometimes Squishy would send stuff to Monsters Inc. so Sulley and Mike can get their own letters and packages while they're hard at work sorting mail._

_It's nice to have frat brothers. They make up for the sisters that outnumber us. Hahaha._

_As you are old enough to worry about your college future, we'll recommend that you join a sorority as that would get you a new family in college to keep you company when you're away from your home family. But if you join a sorority, promise me that you won't join those sorority sisters who look for common qualities in appearance. We don't want you corrupted._

_And soon, you'll have me and Dad (and maybe Else if she comes visit, or by a longshot, Elsa) to double-dutch with. We're tired of double-dutching with ourselves. Hahahaha._

_Although we're staying a bit longer away from home, we can still catch your ballet recital. Can't wait to show you our new dance moves in return._

_Enclosed are some photos of us and our frat brothers. I know you never met them, but since you ask the most about them, sometimes I feel like they're family to you. _

_There is a photo of us dancing with Don. Yup, that's one of our private dancing sessions with him for his upcoming wedding. Yeah, Art apparently thought it was a good idea to take snapshots of us dancing with him. So yeah, forgive us for looking so surprised in few of the shots as we didn't know Art stuffed himself in the chimney and fireplace until it was too late. We saved you the best shot where Squishy walked in on us. We know it will make you laugh. _

_Your cool big bros,_

_Terry &amp; Terri._

* * *

Else Perry

0033 Oozmanian Street

Roarington, XX

_:::::::::::::::::::::::::_

_Dear Else,_

_Hi, it's your annoying little bros, taking time to write a letter instead of calling you since you're been so busy._

_Mom told us you made it to Monsters Inc.! Psychology studies must really pay off. I guess Fear Tech was good for getting somewhere after all, ha ha! And g__uess what, we hoped to be Scarers there ourselves! We actually made a visit there weeks ago._

_We admit, we didn't think it would be such an important job before, examining paperwork and photos and assessing the child's worse fears to match them to ideal Scarers. Mons who do this ought to be immortalized on trading cards. No one seems to care how much Child Psychoanalyzers contribute to our Scream supply. _

_We hope that one day, you'll run into our paperwork in your job and assign our child!_

_I wish to come home and see your apartment. _Consider yourself fortunate to have your own space! We can't even have our own space!__

_If you come to visit Mom and Dad, I sure hope you stay awhile as we need our old Scaring target back. We're not too old to creep into your room while you listen to your music and read. We warn you. We need to perfect our Scares. Better watch your back cause we need someone to rehearse on._

_Mom informed us that Elsa just put her Psychiatry plans to a halt. Did she decide to be a rebel to Mom's old wishes? Mom feels it might be her fault that Elsa did what she did and is curious rather than upset. Whatever she wants to do with her life, we'll support her. __We miss Elsa, especially considering she hadn't contacted us. She hasn't been answering our phone calls. So we're going to try writing to her. __I hate to bring this up as we have been way over it more than a decade ago, but sometimes I think that it was after the trampoline incident she started to turn cold. I think she still blames herself. We always made sure she knew we never blamed her just as we never blamed you._

_We wonder, do you miss Elsa? I know you do, but I mean in a profound way that some essential part of you is missing something? Is this how non-conjoined twins would feel when apart for so long? Remember when Mom and Dad used to put Anna &amp; Anne into the same crib but they couldn't stop giggling at each other, so Mom and Dad placed Anna &amp; Anne into separate cribs only for them to cry until they were together? Do you sorta feel this way about Elsa?_

_Enclosed are a photo of us and our fraternity brothers._

_Hope to see you soon!_

_Your obnoxious lil' bros,_

_Terry &amp; Terri._

* * *

Elsa Perry

0053 Adrendella Avenue

Fright Town, XX

_:::::::::::::::::::::::::_

_Dear Elsa,_

_Hello, big sister. We have been sending some phone messages and cards and photos of our good old college days._

_Are you still making those ice sculptures occasionally? We've heard you've done some freelancing as an artist and put your Psychiatry prospects on hold.__ Ah, taking it nice and easy. Can you send us some photos of your work? If you weren't so far away, we would recommend our recently engaged friends to order some of your finest ice sculptures from you. _

_If you're not visiting anytime soon like Else, then we're thinking we can pay a visit to your apartment. Did you know that Mom sleeps on your bed, awaiting your return? She misses you so much that she hadn't even returned to her own room back to Dad for the last few years._

_Hope you might call us and see us during the summer. Enclosed is a photo of us._

_Your brothers,_

_Terry &amp; Terri._

* * *

_Allusions/References_

_\- "Roarington" is the twin's hometown according to their trading card. What state is that in? I've got no clue._

_\- Henrietta Foster is un unused Pixar character who appeared in the deleted "Drama" sequence in Monsters University._

_\- This is tricky. Guess which real-life magician duo Jill &amp; Ray are modeled after and how do their names tie into the real-life counterparts._

_\- It's too easy to guess where many of OC names come from._


	11. Best Men's Speech

As their elder sister drove them, Terry idly watched the passing landscapes from the window, while Terri chattered away, their sister rarely glancing at them, for she was keeping her eyes on the horizon of the freeway before her.

The return to Roarington felt like a obligatory vacation rather than a homecoming, as they temporarily traded away the comforts of the Oozma Kappa household for the nostalgia of childhood familiarity.

* * *

Days before their trip back to Monstropolis, Terri asked Terry to do the speechwriting to accommodate for the both of them.

"Can't we just have it out when we give the speech?"

"Oh, c'mon, memorizing can't hurt. You can memorize dance steps, choreographies, Scare tactics, and Mike's routines. So memorize this."

With Terri clutching Terry's writing, they rehearsed their speech in front of the mirror for hours, all while thinking of its inevitable revision.

* * *

_When we first encountered Don, he was just this miscellaneous guy alongside another miscellaneous guy, Squishy, trying to recruit for Oozma Kappa. He might as well been just a passing face on campus._

_When trying to recruit us, he said, "come for the quality housing arrangement. Stay for the fun." The prospect of having him as our fraternity brother was an afterthought at the time. We signed up for Greek Life and quality housing, a fair incentive. We got the quality housing, but the friends, were the best part of the deal. __And boy, did Don deliver._

_We have known Don only for over a year. __But for us, so much meaning has been contained in those months we were friends. We are three decades apart from each other, but Don reached out for us across the generational gap and befriended us. Since then, we studied, laugh, survived college together. _

_When Don and Ms. Squibbles reported their engagement, we thought, well, just about time. __What made the match even more evident was that Ms. Squibbles, oh, I mean Mrs. Squibbles, has been a second mom to us, always spoiling us with her cooking and treats, while Don was our father figure. I recall that a few months ago, we walked in on a heartwarming moment between you two. We __can never get the image of you two on the porch, just a few months ago, soaking wet after walking in the storm. You looked upset, Don. You were in her arms. What ever happened was between you, but that was the sure sign you were meant for each other._

_We think of Dad's old saying there is this is a magic to marriage. Magicians can explain magic if they wanted to, but they can't explain love. All Dad knows is that marriage brings a lifetime of heaven to look forward to. _

_To the joys ahead of you._

* * *

During the speech, Terry was the first to spy their mother in the mirror, a figure at their doorway, her smile bright but weary, perhaps having stood there for an undisclosed amount of time.

Terri took notice of her too, but much later, but the boys finished the rehearsal run because they sensed that Mom had waited for them to finish a practice run before speaking with them.

* * *

As they stood from the table, Terri gulped and Terry rose his glass.

"Hello, I'm Terry."

Terri rose his glass. "And I'm Terri... with an 'i.'"

Terry went first. "When we and Don first met, he was Mr. Carlton to us. He could have been a just a passing face on campus. He was just this guy alongside Squishy trying to recruit into their fraternity. He said, 'come for the cheap housing arrangement. Stay for the fun.'"

Suddenly, Terri tossed in an ad-lib in a poorly-attempted Midwestern accent, in a comical but affectionate imitation of what he remembered of Don's words. "So ya' joined for da' swell housing deal, but I guarantee that yer stay for da' fun!" He even swung his fists in an identical motion Don often did, earning a barrage of kneeslap laughter from the table that contained Don's old co-workers.

When he felt the laughter dying down, Terry continued, "The prospect of having Don as our frat brother was an afterthought at the time. We signed for the housing deal and the Greek Life, perhaps something to put on our resume. We got our quality housing and our Greek Life. But the friends, Don, were the best part of the deal. In the span of one and half year, ahem, three semesters, we became close buds. So we have not quite grown up with him for a long time. He must have had friends who knew him for decades." He gestured toward the table of Don's friends, who seemed to take pride in this indirect acknowledgement.

Terri's turn. "And boy, did Don deliver. Satisfaction guaranteed!"

Terry's turn. "We studied together. We endured fraternity games together. We laughed together. We cried together."

"Danced together!" Terri shouted. Laughter ensued.

"Don. Used to call him Mr. Carlton. But having grown to know him, he's Don to us."

"First-name basis, please!" Terri emulated that accent again, earning chuckles from Don's pals.

Terry went on, "Relationships are about constant evolution into better beings. Whenever a chick flick ends, it likes to end with a couple getting together. But there is more beyond the getting together. So much to do together. So much joys and wonders ahead of you. The marriage, this wedding, is the milestone. The relationship is the journey beyond that milestone."

Terri exclaimed, "It's pure magic!"

"Our mom once told us that the marriage will come with tribulations. But no worries. You won't cause the tribulations, you'll endure them together."

Terry had semi-planned to elaborate on their mother's influence, but his pause lasted a few seconds enough to produce a noticeable lull in the speech, so Terri had to jump in and add, "When we heard the announcement of the engagement, we thought, well, just about time. Now Don, now Sheri, don't think we didn't notice your staring across the kitchen table. Don't think that just because you had alone talks in the living room, we didn't know about it. It was just about time!"

Terry drove on, "And being that we will live under the same roof as yours for a few more semesters, I look forward to seeing that relationship grow beyond what it already is." And the minute the temptation came up, he said this: "Of course, just to assure the bride and groom, we're not going to see _all_ the details." And he gave a prolonged blink, the "winking" language of a Cyclops.

But it was within a milliseconds after the humorous quip, Terry wondered if it was appropriate. It did earn some laughs - the bride stifled a giggle - though Scott bit his lips.

But what made the ad-lib regretful was that now the flushing groom tugged at his emerald-green bow tie and collar, as if he had just realized it suffocated him. Terry noticed how the bride cut her giggle short and stroked his hand to inconspicuously console whatever distress wandered in his head. There were things better left privately to the bride and groom.

He had the impulse to wrap this up.

"To the joys ahead of you."

The groom reverted back to all smiles as his palms twined in his bride's clasp.

"To Don! To the happiness ahead of you! To Sheri. To the happiness ahead of you!"

"To your spirit! To your love! To your commitment!" Terry added.

With that last line, Terry thought he achieved a suitable finale, but then he noticed Scott, alert, but quite sheepish, eyes down at his blank plate.

So Terry had the urge to improvise one last bit.

"Squishy... Scott."

Squishy perked up, flushing, frightened at the sudden acknowledgement. But it was too late to withdraw it and spare Squishy. "This is your day too." Terri looked perplexed, having not rehearsed a part about Squishy, but glad to include the guy anyway.

"You just got a great dad today. He's a dad to us too as well as a brother." But halfway out of his lips, Terry wondered if it was right to spring up old uncomfortable matters to Squishy.

Terri came, somewhat, to his rescue, "Yes, odd sounding, but that doubles the benefits of the relationship, heh heh. To the happiness ahead of you, Squishy, pal!"

And Squishy _did_ manage a smile. For their sake? To assure them that he knew they meant well? Or genuinely happy at the aforementioned prospect? After all, he probably still harbored mixed feelings about the union of Don and his mother. Terry wondered if he should have risked that improvised finale.

Terri had the last word of their speech. "Now, to stop hogging the speechmaking and pass it on to the rest of the best men."

As they sunk down to their seat, Terry's hands reached to Terri's hands to join in the applause, their singular heart still pounding, doubled by their mutual trepidation of post-speechgiving.


	12. Summer Poems

Terry wrote this poem and did not share it with Terri.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**preclude to wedding night**

_They consummate __by the chaste caresses of hands_

_inconspicuously before jovial friends and family_

_musing about them,_

_gossiping about their perfection,_

_while both ponder their own deficiencies_

_afraid of displeasing the other._

_In spite of rehearsal,_

_he falls for her over again on the dance floor,_

_weighed down by heavy joints,_

_rusted by the insecurity of disappointment_

_and semi-paralyzed by awe of her._

_She hasn't practiced, _

_but moves by experience,_

_She lets him go so he can find his own groove _

_then he discovers his gradual movements,_

_She coaxes him to retake her hands_

_and guides him through rhythm._

_tune by tune,_

_touch by touch,_

_and she enjoys his steadied, practiced movements._

_She rest on his shoulder,_

_listening to his gradual heartbeats,_

_heavy by the presence of triple hearts_

_When she's pressed to him, _

_he detects the subtle acceleration of her heartbeats._

_Then his hearts start gushing,_

_but he keeps moving steadily,_

_so only she knows of his racing hearts._

_In the intervals between steps and kisses,_

_they whisper about plans,_

_inaudible to witnesses._

_As the crowd dispersed_

_and the ceremony is exhausted by time,_

_the best men stay past the schedule_

_to offer surplus congratulations._

_They exit and escort each other_

_and anticipate (and fear)_

_the dark beneath the sheets._

* * *

Terry found himself writing more...

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**_Basic Sleight_**

_Palm. __Ditch. __Steal. __Load. __Simulation. _

_Misdirection._

_Switch._

_complexity of the simplistic._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_It's the thousandth snapdragon he killed._

_the flower before the canvas is there before the magician_

_he enters with knife_

_The skeleton of the stem_

_he passes between canvas and flower,_

_to prove that there are no strings attached_

_from shadow and flower._

_He stages the accident and gore_

_and he had scripted the sickening breath of a wince._

_the prick of a finger, _

_the shadow of blood dripping._

_his theatrical smear of blood on the canvas over the_

_skeleton shadow._

_unreal and true._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Attic Relics**

_we learned that too late_

_that our trading cards was_

_wedged in our room after all_

_before we searched the attic_

_rife with bittersweet dust._

_Next to a cracked coat rack_

_a cracked walker, faded plastic_

_surrounding, circular tray of attached toys._

_A mini-xylophone with discordant, aged notes,_

_keys a faded rainbow._

_We also discover a blurry static ultrasound picture_

_when doctor had diagnosed,_

_"two hearts."_

_Shift to post-womb_

_I, my brother, ask,_

_would it be more convenient to be two or one heart?_

* * *

_A/N_

_UntoldStories113 had hoped to see more of the wedding. As there was no plans, I decided to compose the beginning poetry as an answer to her request._

_Allusions_

_Look up "Teller's Shadows" on Youtube. And "The Principles of Magic." I have actually witnessed the "Shadows" and "Principles of Magic" live._


	13. An Update and Syllabus

_Anna &amp; Anne,_

_Here's the update._

_Nothing has changed, except the household has been jollier since the marriage of Don and **Mrs.** Sheri Squibbles. They take turns cooking the meals. Don's meals started out as slightly burnt, but his cooking is heading toward perfection: the right kind of burnt. __He tries out new recipes, sometimes overly sugary. Like an overeager Chemistry student, he experiments with sweets (tried making "bluescary gravy" on meatloaf once. Let's not mention him using brown sugar as a substitute for cheese for spaghetti). We suspect he thinks that the more sugar, the more she likes. Or she's really getting an increasing sweet tooth cause she does devour what he cooks. We also notice that Mrs. Squibbles's cooking has gotten richer. I guess marriage improves the already great-cooking of Mrs. Squibbles. _

_Scott and Art are fine. Gladly practicing old drills our pal Mike left us. Art loves scattering toys over the living room floor, our rooms, or even the porch and we'll dodge them, a drill we've done constantly since the departure of Michael and James. Even Mrs. Squibbles is kind enough to rearrange the mess so we can learn to readjust. We miss having Mike holler advice and drills at us._

_As for Mike and James, they are still working as mail sorters at Monsters Inc. where Else working at. We should join in on Squishy's letter-writings to them._

_Next week is Rush Week, so we'll be throwing our first frat party! We have some Oozma Kappa funds to invest in this. Hope we can get more brothers!_

_We had a refreshing start this semester, but tough times are ahead of us. We're looking for a campus jobs, rehearsing roars in front of the mirror, flipping through Scaring textbooks we share with Art. And I, Terry, must tackle my memoir class. Better start re-reading Dr. Reynolds's syllabus._

_Your bros,_

_Terry &amp; Terri._

* * *

_Syllabus: Short Story Memoir_

Truths are told in techniques.

Memory is vague. Memory lacks accuracy and can be distorted. Memory is often embellished. Memory can be downplayed, romanticized, harsh... etc. Many times, the readers are unaware that the memoir is deceptive or unreliable until a second reading. Some tactful readers notice immediately the unreliability of the memoir but keep reading, because it's the air of unreliability that adds to the mystery and manners of storytelling.

This memoir class is _not exclusive to non-fiction memoirs. _The techniques we will discuss applies universally to the fiction or memoirs alike, stories derivative of your own life story or someone else's. Memoir styles applies to all stories. Memoirs can be dramatic, or autobiographical, some notorious for twisting truths, or ignored, or acclaimed, for brutal honesty.

As self-reflection is an integral part of memoir, I recommend that each draft will have an afterword, explaining intent and background of the draft so peers and I can assess goals for future drafts.

Audrey Reynolds.

* * *

_Recommendation: Keep a journal about events in your life. Feel free to describe these events however you like. _

::::::::::::::::::::::::

_SETTLING IN_

_Two weeks into this semester and we're witnessed to their marriage. Observing, or listening, when our heads were turned away, as if averting our sight would give them privacy or reduce the awkwardness of witnessing their intimate acts of affection. Though they had gotten so comfortable that it has gotten less awkward (and more chuckle-inducing) to watch them steal embraces or kisses or exchange pet names ("Donnie! Sherry-Berry! Deary! Love!")._

_But now it led to a new sense of absence, unexpected as Don had become even more of a residence in that house, having packed up his old apartment in Dark Avenue. He's often away, performing surplus shifts at this Mon-Mart or RoarWill or MarketVille, cajoling customers into buying discounted clothing goods while sneaking peeks into his school notes and books between customer services. We find ourselves thinking of more subjects and questions to ask him at school just to spend more time with him. On the first Friday Board Game Nights of this semester, he and Mrs. Squibbles played one round. Then he claimed that he was drowsy, then excused himself and went upstairs. She joined him. They did it again next Game Night (though they forced a few yawns this time to sound more authentic) and that signaled that this was going to be an occurrence every Friday. He prefered walking with her to school rather than with us. Whenever we're walking, we look back to see them in the distance, following behind, laughing and talking, holding hands, sometimes waving at us._

_In terms of kitchen duty, it used to be that Don only did the dishes, even in their pre-marital days, but now he has taken some charge of the cooking. He and Mrs. Squibbles__ alternated between the cooking. Mrs. Squibbles's meals has gotten richer, especially with the odd spicing to her ingredients: rose petals. And soon, Don adopted this ingredient during breakfast and sprinkling rose petals on the heap of scrambled eggs he takes up to their room, muttering that he hoped that she was still asleep to wake up to a surprise._

_It was our first time sampling rose petals. __Rose petals are an experience, individual to each. Art eats them like it's no problem. Scott seems repelled by them, batting Art's hand away whenever he offers a petal to Scott._

_Terri is right that the petals have an euphoric effect. He likes it. I like the taste, dry with an aromatic flavor, but not its effects._

_The petals make him thinks of girls. __I think of a girl. I think of her because she was the most recent (of a few months ago) girl in my mind, not because of affection. We never even shared a sentence of a conversation. It's not even a crush or infatuation, but rather, her presence bitterly haunting my memory, insubstantial as her personality. She's a bad memory I underestimated. But I can't exactly abstain from the roses's effects, for my brother had taken a fondness for roses. _

_Their post-wedding vacation at a hotel at an adjourning city near Monstropolis apparently did not count as a honeymoon. _Sheri _deserves better, Don said to us once as we waited for Knight's class to start. That's why I've been working away da' late-night shifts. Sh, don't tell her. I'm also doing it for budgeting our frat parties like Party Central._

_Then what was their dream honeymoon? Paradise Falls. Unfortunately postponed at an "indefinite time" due to lack of affordability._

_Now we whisper about plans whenever Don's and his new wife's are not around. We talk to Scott and Art about doing little jobs around campus to save up for their true honeymoon for the next summer. __Imagine, the ideals that could be realized with money. One never-to-be-realized idea was to have their wedding at the M.U. stadium as the missus had a taste for bombastic and loud ceremonies. But financial pragmatism had reduced that fantasy to the humble M.U. chapel, and Sheri and Don couldn't be any happier. But true, Don and Sheri deserve more._

_Two of our frat brothers, Michael and James, pay a few visits, but their absence left a hole in our hearts: the house is quieter without Mike's stern drilling and the walls are hollow without Sulley's bombastic roars. Considering their circumstances - financial recovery after a messy expulsion - we were unsure about involving them in the secret funding for Don. Mike had lamented the loss of his scholarship and the futility of student loans. James had alluded to his current residence in Mike's family home, no further elaboration on his own home situation. They visit on occasion, insisting that they contribute to our secret funding (as Scott slipped the secret to them)._

_In the meantime, the teachers are welcoming, Prof. Knight shook our hands on our first day of class (and gave a hearty slap on Don's back with a congratulations), though reception from our new classmates has been lukewarm. When we walk across the campus, sit down in class, there would be looks, some welcoming, some indifferent, some resentful. There would be some whispers I never hear. I learned to not make eye contact or turn my attention to them. I can only catch the few snide or curious keywords ("Games"... "cheating scandal"... "expulsion...") uttered by gossipers who glance at us and talk out of our earshot, perhaps disappointed or fascinated with us. Their whispers would remind me - us - that we remain associated (stigmatized) with a past fiasco. _

_We keep walking the campus for better or worse._

* * *

_Allusions/References_

_\- So far, a common headcanon about Sheri's and Don's wedding is that it took place at the MU stadium. Doesn't happen in this fanfic, but I can reference the idea of it._

_\- Spot the Up reference._

_\- The mention of letters sent to Mike and Sully in the mailroom is a reference to UntoldStories113's "Tampering with the Mail," an experimental fanfic actually inspired by a bit back in Chapter 10: Letters to the Perrys at Home._


	14. In the Moment of that Summer

_CAUTION: The chapter below is one of the most challenging drafts I have written. Be warned of the strange incoherency. The below in-universe afterword will explain why it was done and later chapters likely will clarify the scene. Until then, read the epigraph and the following cha__pter, and let me know the impression. Constructive criticism is encouraged._

* * *

_"I went toward her, crying, and she shrank against the wall and I saw her eyes and I cried louder and pulled at her dress. She put her hands out but I pulled at her dress. Her eyes ran." - Ben's section of The Sound and Fury_

* * *

_Prompt: Write about a moment. Emphasize as less as you can on explanations to actions. Limit explicit internal thoughts and opinions._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**In the Moment of that Summer**

I could see them through the dew-glittered window, kicking blubblebonnets, and sometimes hitting. Terri tapped on the window, poking at the sparkles of raindrop on the other side.

Else was shouting. Elsa climbed onto the trampoline. She flew and her tentacles tagged the branch of the tree. Else jumped with her. They plucked leaves in the air as they went up, up. When they were down, they sprinkled leaves all over the trampoline.

Else and Elsa shouted more, saw us, and waved in the air. I waved. Terri waved.

I bounced. Terri bounced. Walker was heavy. I patted a rattle of the walker. It sounded like a snowglobe with noise. Our tentacles brushed the carpet.

Mommy sat at the couch, reading cards aloud to us, yawning between her words. She doesn't mumble but her words are like mumbles. Big words from her lips. Audacity. Perfection. Tangible...

"Can't I have story?" Terri pleaded as he banged a fist on the walker tray.

She kept reading. Conduct. Extravagant. Sensitivity...

"Take a break, sweetums," said Daddy with a smile. "Give our boys a break. Their heads can't take it. My head can't take it." He laughed. "It seems your head had enough too."

Else and Elsa came in, and almost crashed onto the coat rack.

They smelt like dirt. Shreds of grass on Else's cheeks, mud on Elsa's dress. They bounced on Daddy's lap, getting mud on him and his rainbow hankerchiefs. He laughed, shooing them off like how Mommy shooed away pigeons. Mom shook her head and told him to get the mud off.

"Get my girls off first."

She frowned.

"Daddy, why don't you watch them? So Momma can have her headache in peace," said Elsa.

Mommy sighed. She continued flipping through cards as she walked upstairs, her tentacles heavy.

"I'll watch you sweeties from the window then."

"Can't we take them?" They pointed at us.

He looked to the stairs where Mommy went. "Sure, sweeties. Just watch them carefully."

They plucked us from the walker. Elsa carried us out.

Terri tagged the coat rack on our way out. Elsa tagged it too hard, causing Else to run and straighten it. Else looked to Daddy, who was stuffing his handkerchiefs into his sleeves as he fiddled with a false daisy.

In the hot of the sun, we plucked at the leaves and weeds, chewing on the insects. Elsa gnawed on a bubblebonnet. They grew tired of dining on the earth.

So they pulled us onto the trampoline.

Elsa clung onto us. Up and up we were both going. We all flew. Terri reached for the leaves of the tree.

We flew. We flew again. We flew three more times.

The swipping pressure of air made me miss it before it hit. It skinned at my the side of my forehead too quickly for me to scream. Something sliced through the center of our neck and the blow of darkness before I hit the bouncy surface and Else's shrieked. Terri shouted. There was bark and leaves wedged onto his cheek.

I didn't cry when I woke up. I couldn't feel Terri.

The hospital room looked, smelled like cotton.

My cheek was heavy with cotton now. The slicing feeling between our necks was still there.

Mom bent down and scooped us in her arms. She laid her head on our chest, like we do when we're clinging on to her. We were wrapped in Ma's tentacles like a gift.

It hurt so much that I could not cry. Her lulling voice tired us but the pain didn't go away.

Terri fingers felt for my arm. And I felt him again. He breathed hot on my neck. His horn almost poked my cheek through cotton. I almost cried even if I felt the pressure rather than the sharpness. Mom pushed back Terri's horn from my cheek so it Terri could be there without poking me.

"Broken bone," said doctor. Then he said something about the spine. And things like the words on Mommy's cards. Also things too hard to be on Mommy's cards.

Terri was trying to reach for me again. The numbness hurt and held my skin still. I reached for Terri's hand and felt the pressing of the hand, but not the extension.

Else looked at us, her fists at her chest like she was holding her doll. In a corner, Elsa was tucked like a time-out. I nearly cried when I saw her eyes.

Tired and holding Terri's hand, I leaned closer to Terri's crying so I could drown out Mommy's angry voice and Daddy's talking.

::::::::::::::::::::

_**Afterward:** When you write with the virtual absence of internal explanation, it sets a challenge for "show, don't tell." I decided to take an interesting experiment: I attempted to emulate the style of Bill Falkner, limiting the view and trying to stick to childlike diction. In retrospect, the result was convoluted yet intriguing. The end result yielded a misbalance between refined diction and childlike, simple diction which also had the side-effect of bothersome repetition to much of the simple words. _

* * *

_Ava-Kane's note,_

_This is an interesting experiment. For those who looked at the samples of the first chapter of William Faulkner's "Sound and Fury" or check out its wikipedia entry or Sparknotes about the notorious first chapter you will figure what I'm attempting to emulate here. Please send input on how the experiment worked. _

_The hope was to post another second chapter to relieve you from the weirdness or the overdose of OC characters, but even then I hadn't a lot of time to finish the following chapter. _

_In hindsight, I have reservations about whether the whole Perry-family-history arc was a substantial route to go, simply because the arc required me to be liberal about the speculation on their history. But this is the direction I am committed to, so therefore the Perry-family arc will be dealt with rather than shunted aside. On the other hand, there are opportunities to exploit and experiment with this storyline to build upon the world of MU/MI, explore the domestic family dynamics, and the social treatment of twins in the Monster World._

_A little teaser for the next chapter: UntoldStories113 gave me a pointer about naming OCs (Like Elsa, Anna) after already existing characters in the Disney franchise makes for a distracting read. I considered her point but it would go against my writing ethics to totally go back and revise the names. So the next chapter will try to rectify this situation._

_I own Elsa, Else, the Mr. and Mrs. Perrys, and Audrey Reynolds. Terry &amp; Terri are Pixar property._


	15. A Poem about Writer's Block

A poem sat next to drafts of the unfinished memoir paper and a DROP/REPLACE CLASS petition.

* * *

**_Liminality between the Mental Blueprints and the Finishing_**

_By Terry Perry_

I forged a key that didn't fit,

into the memory with rust-crusted padlocks

I forged the furtile ring of keys

that never brushed a padlock.

that rusted by the neglect of my hands.

My fingers scratch at them open,

but they freezing their wheels into confidentiality.

the sisters floating

Ducking behind the cryptic words to compensate for time.

My mind as stationary as a coat-hanger

Shall I commit?

What should I do?

What shall the ink-pen scrabble next?

Do I surrender? Do I slither on?

I still breathe in this liminality of finished and the unfinished?

The old padlocks have rusted.

Time to dig out new ones,

as I await the Muse yet-to-be born

to bestow novelty keys?

Shall I keep forging my keys?

Maybe it was best I crafted my own padlocks

while I'll enter doors with uncharted space.


End file.
